


(Merc)urial Desires

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Family Drama, Intersex Omegas, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Jason Todd, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason definitely isn't expecting to run into Deathstroke the Terminator in a random, hole in the wall bar in Kentucky. What he is expecting is to spend his oncoming heat alone, like he always does, since there's not a decent alpha in the world willing to risk the big bad Bat's anger enough to sleep with him. Lucky for him, though, Slade is there to prove him wrong on both accounts. That is, if Jason's willing, anyway.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 506
Kudos: 1854





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is... mostly an excuse for porn. But porn that sort of grew a plot that spiralled into (at current counting) six chapters. We hope you enjoy it!

Jason's in the middle of his third drink in the hole in the wall bar, in an out of the way town in fucking Kentucky of all places, when Slade _goddamn_ Wilson drops onto the barstool next to him.

It takes him a second to realize. The first warning he has is the bartender drawing up straight, looking past him towards the door with sudden focus, and the second is the too-close waft of alpha scent that overrides even the whiskey in his glass. It almost sort of matches the smokiness of the liquor, if it weren't for the sharp gunmetal aftertaste that lodges itself at the back of his throat. A body slides onto the stool right next to his, jean-clad knee almost brushing his thigh, and it's the fourth fucking alpha to come at him tonight so he turns on the person encroaching on his personal space with a snarl already on his lips. Except his eyes have to go a lot further up than he expected, and the white hair and eyepatch that meet him are familiar enough to kill the snarl in his throat before it can be anything more than a faint vibration.

He stalls out.

"Hey there, kid," fucking Deathstroke says, with a smirk. "Fancy running into you here."

Jason swallows, abruptly deciding it was fucking _dumb_ to come out here without his guns. Fuck the idea of relaxing, of just having a drink, of shaking off the stress of the stupid case he's working. He wants his _weapons_.

The flick of fingers almost makes him jerk off the barstool, before he realizes Slade is signaling to the bartender.

“Jim, my usual.” A glance his way, and a smirk. “Another of whatever he’s having, too, but top shelf this time.”

Jason scowls even as the bartender — Jim, apparently — says, “You got it,” and pulls a couple glasses out from under the bar.

“Maybe I like what I have,” he snaps, baring his teeth as he struggles against the massively conflicting fight-or-flight reactions warring in his chest.

On one hand, Slade Wilson is one of the deadliest people on the planet, give or take a few other metas. Sitting next to him in a bar, without his armor, or his gear, or anything else, is a bad idea. A fucking _terrible_ idea. He should book it right now and take his chances being fast and lucky enough to get at least far enough away to get to a gun, or something.

On the other hand, this feels just like the last three alphas to come at him tonight, smelling the very first edges of his upcoming heat and thinking it makes him easy prey. Flash a smile, get too close, and go home with an omega to fuck and throw out the next morning. Not what he expected from someone like Slade, but being the focus of that kind of behavior makes him itch to throw punches and start biting, and it sure as hell doesn't make him want to _run_. He's not running from any arrogant alpha prick, no matter how easy they think he is.

One amused blue eye flicks towards his half-finished drink. "If you really want more of that shit, I'll get you that instead. Or you can have something else. Name it."

Jason snarls, just a little. Just enough he feels it in his throat, and it probably wouldn't be audible even without the music playing, but Slade's lips twitch up like he heard it regardless. "Why the fuck would I take a drink from you, Slade?"

The glasses clink against the top of the bar as 'Jim' sets them down.

Slade shifts, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and nearly making Jason jerk away again before his fingers come back with a wallet. He flips it open, pulls out a very crisp looking hundred, and hands it off to the bartender. "Thanks, Jim."

"No problem, Mr. Wilson. Call if you need anything."

Jason watches Jim head off to the other side of the bar, far away from the two of them, and comes to a few painfully slow realizations. One, Slade knows this bartender's name. Two, the bartender knows _Slade's_ name, and his 'usual' drink order besides. The easy conclusion is that somehow his stupidly bad luck has managed to land him in the one random ass, hole in the wall, piece of shit bar that _Deathstroke_ frequents. What the _fuck?_ Why _Kentucky_ , of all places?

(Well, okay wait… Slade was born in the Midwest somewhere, wasn't he? Was it Kentucky? Jesus, it's been awhile since he had any reason to look at those files. He hasn't _actually_ randomly managed to wander into Slade's hometown, has he? Wow, now that would be just his luck.)

"So don't drink it." Slade shrugs, wallet left on the bar next to his 'usual,' which is apparently some kind of bourbon. He swirls it, takes a sip. "What are you doing here, kid?"

Jason glances at the new glass sitting next to his. It's lighter than the whiskey he had; probably is way fucking better, but Jason had never gotten snobbish about booze like Bruce is. It's not like he was drinking it for taste, anyway; he just wanted the burn and a little bit of tipsiness to ease him down.

"Just a case," he answers evasively, picking up his old glass while he eyes the new one. It couldn't hurt, right? Probably? It's not like Slade has reason to drug him; not that he knows of, anyway. Enlisting a random bartender he knows to help drug him would be weirdly coincidental, too.

"I know. Trafficking, very noble of you." Slade glances him over, and takes a very obvious, pointed sniff that makes Jason bare his teeth again. "But why aren't you in Gotham?"

Fuck it.

He takes the rest of his original drink in a shot, throwing it back. It burns, but he's done shots with Russians, a little rough whiskey isn't even enough to make him wince. "What the fuck business is that of yours?"

"None, I guess. Just wondering why you're not with whichever Bat you're fucking."

It's probably good he hadn't picked up the other glass yet, because he nearly chokes on just his own spit. He has to cough, suck in a breath, and wheeze that out too before he can find enough air to really _process_ that, let alone respond.

" _Excuse_ me?"

Slade's eyebrow raises. "Irresponsible of them to leave it so last minute, that's all. Cutting it a little close, considering the flight one of you will have to take."

The anger is so all-consuming that for a second Jason doesn't want anything more than to take that glass of fancy liquor and smash it right into Slade's good eye. He _just_ manages to rein that impulse in, and he takes a steadying breath, sliding off the stool and gripping the edge of the bar so he doesn't swing for Slade instead. He can't. It's dumb. Suicidal.

"I'm not _fucking_ any of them," he hisses, and pretends that doesn't sting, right back behind his heart.

Slade, for his part, actually looks genuinely surprised for a second. Blinks. Looks him up and down. "I was pretty sure the Bats claimed you as pack."

His other hand draws into a fist. "They do. I am."

(Sure, he's pack. In name. When they _want_. But never during his heat, and Bruce would never let anyone else— No one's ever had the fucking _balls_ to— God he fucking _hates_ this.)

Slade's eye narrows. "Hm." There's a second there of pause, consideration as Slade leans into the bar and looks right back at him. "Interesting that none of them are with you, then."

He snarls for real this time, digging his fingers harder into the bar. "That's not any of your fucking business."

He’ll swing. He’ll go for Slade’s fucking _throat_ if he mocks him for that. He _knows_ , okay? He fucking knows that he should be with pack during his heat, for sex or for bonding, to be with _family_ that can ease him through the stress. It’s how nature designed it, according to everything he’s ever read. He _knows_ that keeping him separated is a fucked up control tactic from the world’s most controlling, emotionally unavailable jackass. (Probably a tactic, anyway. That, or Bruce is really so fucking in denial about human need that he doesn’t even get what he’s doing. But what excuse does that leave the rest of the family with?)

It doesn’t mean that anybody else gets to fucking judge that. Especially not some mercenary asshole that doesn’t even know him.

He's all geared for a fight, so the easy, "Alright," knocks him off balance. Slade turns back to the bar, elbows coming to rest on the top. "I just think it's a shame."

Jason stares, feeling unsteady as Slade takes his drink in hand. “You don’t get to have an opinion.”

“Pretty sure you can’t stop me.” Slade takes a sip, then turns his head towards the two other glasses sitting there. “You going to drink that or not, kid?”

Jason looks down at the one that’s full, then, hand trembling slightly, picks it up and knocks it back in much the same manner as the first. The burn is a little smoother this time, and the aftertaste left on his tongue much richer. He savours it briefly before dropping the glass back down.

“Refill?” Slade asks him mildly, and it’s a relief that he doesn’t scold Jason the way someone else would for treating top shelf liquor in such a manner.

Wordlessly he nods, and Slade immediately signals Jim again.

“What do you mean,” Jason says finally, once he has the third glass in his hands and is nursing it a little more tenderly than he did the first two, “It’s a shame?”

“What do you think I mean, kid?” Slade rests his elbow on the bar as he swirls his own drink. “You’re a young, beautiful, desirable omega, yet you’re tied to a pack that by your own account don’t appreciate you. By anyone’s standards, that’s a waste.”

There are some things in life Jason’s not prepared for, and one of those is Deathstroke the Terminator referring to him as beautiful. _Desirable_ , even. Despite himself, he feels a blush steal over his face.

Trying to play it cool, he shrugs. “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. Not like I can do anything about it either.”

“Mine or theirs?” Slade asks, radiating amusement. “And sure you could. If they’re not keeping you happy, there’s plenty more out there who could.”

Jason snorts, shaking his head. “I’d need my alpha’s permission to do that, and let me tell you, no one out there’s got the balls to cross him once they know who he is. Anyone else so much as sniffs at me, Bruce would kill them.”

Figuratively speaking, anyway.

“I would.”

“Would what?” Jason blinks, looking back in Slade’s direction.

The man is smirking at him now, slowly swirling the remaining contents of his glass. “Have the balls.”

It feels like his chest contracts around the words. Jason snaps his gaze back down towards the bartop, telling himself to breathe. “Don’t do that.” he says.

“Do what?” He hears Slade take a sip of his drink.

“Fuck with me.” Jason’s fingers tighten around his own. “I’m not Dick, Slade. I’m not going to put up with it.”

Slade snorts, and out of the corner of his eye, Jason has the impression of him leaning closer. Something that’s backed up by the slightly stronger wave of alpha scent that hits his nose in the same moment.

“I’m not trying to fuck with you, kid. At least not in that sense.” He turns his head more out of a leftover sense of threat than any desire to look Slade in the eye, but his gaze gets him a small grin, and a lower, "There are much more pleasant ways to fuck with boys like you."

Jason swallows, chest contracting again. "I wouldn't know."

The look in Slade’s eye intensifies. “Really? Not even once?”

It's more than he usually tells anyone; he doesn’t exactly like to admit that no one, his whole fucking life, has wanted him enough to cross his ‘dad.’ But, "No," he admits, looking down at his drink, rounding his shoulders a bit. "There’s never been anyone that was willing to cross Batman that was actually, you know, decent." He snorts, takes a sip of the whiskey and closes his eyes for a second as it slides down his throat. "Pretty much either gotta be a villain or an asshole to do that."

Slade's still watching him, when he looks up. Studying him, more like; head tilted, gaze intent. "You still could have. Some bar, some alpha that didn't know any better. Someone would have taken you home if you asked."

Jason can't help it, he laughs. Just a sharp bark of it, bitter more than it's amused. "Yeah, and then what? I trust someone I don't know? Someone who’s also too drunk or fucked up to notice that I’ve got a bunch of scars from knives and bullets? No. I don't fucking think so. I’m not fucking desperate enough to be stupid, thanks."

The, “Hm,” sounds almost approving, and then a smirk curls one corner of Slade’s mouth upwards. "Can't say I'm going to complain. Not what I expected, but I don't mind inexperience."

The tone of that, the _assumption_ , rankles. "Stop that," he demands, shooting a glare towards Slade.

"What?"

He lifts his lip a bit, just enough to threaten. Not that it’s going to matter to Deathstroke, but it’s ingrained habit and he can’t shake the impulse fast enough to matter. "Stop talking like you've already convinced me to go home with you. I haven't agreed to anything and if you keep treating me like you've already got me, I'm sure as hell not going to. Back off."

That wasn’t— Shit. He didn’t mean to imply that he was thinking about it. He’s _not_. He’s definitely not going to go have sex with Deathstroke, no matter how convincing he thinks he is or how tempting it might be. It’s a bad idea, all around. One-hundred percent.

(He could really get the cream of the crop there; Slade’s a villain _and_ an asshole. Two for the price of one.)

Slade doesn’t react real visibly to the warning. The smirk fades, but he just keeps looking, steady and considering. It’s irritating, honestly. Why can’t he just show reactions like a normal person? A normal alpha? Why does he have to be so much like— Shit. Okay, he’d never actually made the connection between the blank walls that are Bruce and Slade, but now it’s definitely in his head.

Fuck, finding Slade kind of attractive probably counts as some kind of fucked up daddy issues, even beyond the obvious older-alpha part of it. Some screwed up part of him that’s drawn to big, dangerous, emotionally manipulative and really fucking unavailable guys. Awesome. Great to know about himself.

Finally, either oblivious to the turmoil in his head or just choosing not to comment on it, Slade offers, "Understood.”

Jason waits for something else, but that’s it. No apology, explanation, or defense. Just agreement.

Alright, _fine_.

“Good,” he says out loud, and turns back to his drink.

He’s just about resolved to finish the last of the drink and get the hell out of dodge, his dubious attraction and Slade’s confidence be damned, when Slade says, “I have a safehouse towards the edges of town. Remote, excellent security.”

Oh, the bastard, he doesn’t like that either. It’s such obvious bait, trying to get him to ask what Slade is implying. He can see the hook. He shouldn’t ask. He _shouldn’t_.

He makes it about a minute before he turns his head and grudgingly growls, “So what?”

Slade’s not even looking at him. He’s watching the alcohol in his cup swirl in slow circles as he spins the glass, coming dangerously close to the edge but never actually spilling. “You can use it if you want.” Now Slade looks over at him, inhaling deeply enough to be noticable before he says, “You have what, a day left before your heat sets in? A day and a half? Settle in; if you decide you want my company by the time it hits, I’ll join you. If not, you can lock me out and I’ll head off to one of the jobs waiting for me.”

Use one of Slade’s safehouses as a heat den? He’s gotta be fucking kidding. Okay, it’s not like Jason’s got a handy safehouse sitting around in the middle of Nowhere, Kentucky, but it’s not that long a flight to somewhere that he does. He doesn’t _have_ to go back to Gotham, either, if he doesn’t want to. It’s not like that’s the only place that he’s set something up, even if those are his nicest places. All his best toys and things, too.

Slade wasn’t… wrong, though. Exactly. He’s cutting it closer than he’d like, and he’d prefer to avoid having to back off any asshole alphas that think his heat’s going to make him easy prey. A flight’s not the most private thing, and then he still has to get from the airport or landing strip back to somewhere safe. It’s not ideal.

Staying in one of Deathstroke’s bunkers isn’t exactly ideal either, to be fair. He’s more honorable than a lot of the pieces of shit that Jason knows firsthand, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take advantage. In heat, forced into close combat with Slade, and locked inside a safehouse he doesn’t know? He wouldn’t stand even the slimmest chance.

He snorts, side-stepping the whole idea. “Yeah, somehow I doubt you have the supplies for a heat just sitting around your safehouse, _alpha_.”

“Then you’d be wrong.”

… What?

He blinks at Slade, squinting a little at the smug smirk curling his lips. “Why the hell would you?”

He glares a little, automatically, when Slade chuckles. “Kid, you’re cute, but you’re a long way from the first omega I’ve been with. I like sex, and I like toys, so I keep a collection. I’d prefer to use them with you, but if you want to do it yourself, you’re welcome to them.”

Now that makes _no_ sense. Not the part about having toys, because okay, some alphas are actually considerate or kinky or whatever (supposedly) and that’s not necessarily unusual. But just… letting him use them? No strings attached? That’s gotta be a trap. Jason’s never known an alpha that was even half so blase about what they considered to be ‘theirs;’ they’re possessive bastards at the best of times, and having a nearby omega in heat is not the best of times, that’s for damn sure.

“You want to let me use your safehouse, and your—” He can feel the blush light up his cheeks, and has to fight to keep talking. “Your _toys_ , and just, what? Fuck off somewhere? No strings attached? I don’t believe that for a fucking second.”

“Good,” Slade comes back with, immediately. “Of course there are strings, kid. Your heat doesn’t start for another day, so my terms are that you let me stay until it does. You give me that day, then sure, you can use whatever things of mine you want, no expectations.” He smirks, mouth curling up just enough to flash a tiny hint of teeth. “My preference would be you using things a little more personal than some toys, though. Guarantee you’ll have a better time.”

“Yeah,” Jason snaps, “I know what my hands are like, thanks.”

It only really occurs to him when Slades smirk grows to a small grin that it maybe wasn’t the best of things to say.

“I wasn’t recommending your _own_ hands, kid.” A flicker of Slade’s gaze down towards his legs, and back up. “I think I’d be more interested in getting my mouth on you, though. Personally.”

Heat flames to life between his thighs in tandem with the one that spreads across his neck and face. He squirms, lips pressing together as he tries — and really fucking fails — not to imagine that. (His back on the bed, Slade kneeling down between his legs, mouth on him. _Fuck_. He's watched the fucking porn, but what does it _feel_ like? What's the reality, away from the cameras and the stupid hyper-masculine, bullshit-alpha focused stuff in the videos?)

Jason clears his throat, resolutely turns away from Slade's knowing smirk and darkened eye and goes back to his drink. He _doesn't_ press his thighs together, even though there's an urge to do exactly that building at the back of his chest. "What if I'm not interested?" he makes himself ask, staring at the glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Slade shrug, shoulders rolling and pulling the fabric of the shirt tight across them and his chest. His really fucking built chest; _Jesus_. It does _not_ fucking make his mouth dry. Not even a little. It’s just… a lot of muscle. Jason’s not real used to feeling _small_ in comparison to people.

“Then I’ll leave. I like my partners enthusiastic, kid; I’m not going to pitch a fit.”

For some reason, he believes it. Maybe it’s what he’s heard from Dick, over the years, or from third parties. Deathstroke is dangerous, he’s deadly, he can be unpredictable, but he’s just a mercenary. He does what he’s paid for, good or bad, and he doesn’t do anything past that. Unless it’s personal. Granted, fucking an omega from Batman’s pack might be personal. Or an omega from Nightwing’s; fuck knows exactly what their relationship is.

Okay, fuck, so he’s interested. Interested enough, anyway. But he sure as shit doesn’t want to be the revenge fuck against his family. And he doesn’t want— Shit, he doesn’t want to be just a stand in for Dick, or just a notch on a belt to brag about. He doesn’t think he could stand just getting used because he’s connected to the Bats; he wants…

He just wants someone to want him, for _him_. Is that so fucking much to ask for?

Jason takes a breath, “If this is some kind of fucked up attempt to use me against Bruce or Dick…”

“It’s not.”

“If it _is_ ,” Jason clenches his jaw, an undercurrent of a growl entering his voice. “I don’t care how dangerous you are. I will find a way to kill you.”

Perhaps it’s his imagination, but for a brief moment Jason thinks the look that flickers into Slade’s eye at his declaration is one of pleasure, rather than annoyance. “Fair enough.”

Tipping his head back, Jason finishes the last of his drink, then slams the glass back down onto the bar.

“Alright then, show me where this safehouse of yours is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~In loving memory of Skali, who worked her brain to death on NaNoWriMo this year.~~
> 
> [Fire's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Skali's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! We missed the weekend by a day but hey, who's counting? XD Hope you enjoy this chapter!

It is absolutely not a safehouse.

Jason eyes the picture sitting on the mantel of the stone fireplace; what looks like a very young Slade, blond hair and two familiar blue eyes, next to a brown haired, slightly older woman that he assumes has to be the ex-wife, Adeline. Heard of, never met. They're both in military dress; Slade's actually got a smile on his face, his arm around her, and she's leaning into his side.

It's not the only picture around. One, maybe he could excuse as Slade just taking some piece of his old life to every safehouse, but a bunch? No, this is most definitely not a temporary anything. This is absolutely Slade's hometown, and this is his _house_.

Holy shit, he knows where Deathstroke lives.

"Master bedroom's down the hall to the right," Slade says from behind him, pulling his attention away from the picture. "There's clean sheets in the closet; make yourself comfortable. When you're done I'll give you a tour of the security system."

He kind of feels like he should bring up the whole misrepresentation of what this place is, but then maybe it's better to let the elephant in the room stay ignored. What would pointing it out actually get him? "Yeah, alright."

Slowly, bag over his shoulder, he wanders down the hall Slade pointed out. It's a _nice_ house. Out at the edges of 'town,' big property with a big fence. Two stories, lots of wood flooring, high ceilings… Yeah, guess it fucking better have high ceilings if it belongs to Slade. Jason knows a bit about height problems himself, but he can only imagine adding another four or five inches (or whatever the hell Slade actually is to tower like that) on top of that. Must have to duck through doors all the time.

First door on the right, pretty much at the end of the hallway, opens up to the bedroom. It's big, which doesn't really surprise him considering the rest of what he's seen. Thick rugs on the ground, curtains over the pretty enormous windows that take up more or less the whole opposite wall, and a big bed; four poster, pretty high off the ground, easily long enough to actually fit Slade's height, which is probably why he has it.

Jason drops his bag on one corner of it, rolling his shoulder back to ease the tension the weight left in it as he looks around. He said there were clean sheets in the closet, right? So, Slade definitely slept in this, then. On a second glance, it looks it. It's not messy, but the sheets and blankets are just pulled up, not tucked in and smooth, and there's an impression in the pillow where someone's head clearly was. Well, not someone's, Slade's. Probably smells like him, too.

It's a stupid oncoming-heat impulse and he _knows_ it, but Jason still has to curl his fingers into tight fists and grit his teeth not to give into the urge to smell the sheets.

No, absolutely not. It's just a temporary heat den, he's not evaluating Slade as a potential partner, or trying to get used to his scent, or anything else. He's just going to swap the sheets out, throw all this in whatever laundry bin is in here, and not do the stupid romance novel bullshit of swooning over some fucking old scent. He's not that kind of an omega; he can control his own impulses, no matter how close to a heat he is.

Son of a _bitch_.

It's just… It's just to make sure that all the stuff in here that smells like Slade, that he can't just change the covers to, isn't going to irritate him when he goes into heat. Just making sure. That's _all_.

The pillow gives easily under his grip, but the rest stays firm. Memory foam? Doesn't matter. He still feels like an idiot, bringing it up to his face, but he takes a deep breath in anyway.

He knows what Slade smells like, from the bar, but it's diffused here. Smoky, like the campfire smell left over on clothes after sitting around one — or watching a warehouse burn; it's pretty much the same — and here the sharper metal note is a suggestion instead of an aftertaste, blending into that basic alpha musk that underlines all of their various scents. It's a good mix; not as overpowering as the source, not that that's all that bad either. He actually kind of likes the gunmetal smell, personally.

(Bruce would be so offended by that.) 

Jason drops the pillow and spins around, striding towards what he assumes are the closet doors. Great, so the smell's not going to bother him; good to know he doesn't have to call this whole thing off because of an incompatible scent. Now he can change the sheets and be done with it.

It's a walk-in; a hamper at the end with a couple pieces of discarded clothing in it, shirts hanging evenly along the bars on either side. A couple suits, too. (Fuck, what the hell would Slade look like in a suit? They've gotta be tailored, right?) He eyes the closed drawers and cupboards, curious but not _that_ curious, until finally the pass of his gaze finds a couple sets of folded sheets on one of the top shelves. _Just_ within reach; Jesus, this house really was made for Slade, wasn't it? Or he did some serious remodeling once he became stupid tall.

He lifts the pile of sheets to his nose more on automatic than any real impulse as he starts to walk back out, and recoils. They're… _Fake_. Sterile, no clinging scent at all, not even some stupid store-brand alpha-targeted fake pine bullshit or something. There's a tiny hint of dust, but it's unnervingly blank, otherwise. Like scent blocking patches, almost. Hospital sheets. What the hell?

Jason takes a second experimental sniff, and his nose wrinkles.

It'll be fine. He'll just sleep on them tonight and endure it, and then when his heat actually hits they'll smell enough like him that it won't matter anymore. Probably.

But it's unsettling. He really doesn't want to spend a heat in a strange, dangerous alpha's home and _start off_ unsettled. That's a recipe for disaster.

Jason glares at the sheets, then the bed.

It's just another set of the same style. If he… makes the bed really well, and throws _this_ set in the hamper, Slade will never know. No one will ever know. The whole thing's going to reek of him by the end anyway; no one's going to be able to smell a little lingering alpha scent under everything from his heat. It's not the _worst_ option. Slade's scent could be nasty; that would be worse. Still be easier if Slade was a normal alpha with some stupid 'fresh spring' detergent or something; those smell fake as hell but at least they smell like _something_.

He curses quietly to himself, but starts unfolding the new sheets. Gets them out of the crisp lines, crumples them, and ferries the whole armful over to the hamper.

Nobody has to know.

Once he's done making the bed so it at least looks new, and halfway unpacking his bag, he heads back out into the house. There's a sharp smell of coffee in the air when he gets back to the living room, and he follows it to a kitchen, with Slade leaning his hip into one of the marble-topped counters. Machine's still running, but the pot's nearly full; there are two mugs next to it.

"That's a little presumptuous," comes out of his mouth, before he thinks about it.

Slade looks up, arms crossed over his chest. An eyebrow lifts. "Still early by Bat hours, isn't it?"

Well, yeah. Most people might start winding down at about four, but he's usually only just getting started with the real work. "So what? That makes you think I want coffee?"

Slade shifts his weight off the counter and forward, and the kitchen's pretty big but it still only feels like a moment before Slade's towering over him, head tilted to look down with his one good eye. Jason holds his ground, fingers drawing into fists and his lip curling a little upwards. Slade's big, and he's dangerous, but he'll feel pain well enough. Don't have to beat an alpha to make them back off, just have to convince them it's not worth the trouble.

Slade leans a little downwards, and Jason coils to strike in case he needs to, bares his teeth a little more openly—

"Not everything needs to be a fight, kid," Slade says, his voice low and amused. His mouth curves in a smirk, gaze flicking down towards his bared teeth and then up again. "Unless you want it to be."

His breath feels short, anticipation sharp in his chest and he's not fully sure why. "That's presumptive too," he points out, holding Slade's gaze. "I haven't decided yet."

Slade chuckles, and Jason hates a little bit how it feels like it vibrates right under his skin. Hates it and… doesn't. "I wasn't talking about sex."

"Then what?" He snarls, bracing again just because he doesn't know what else to do. "Don't fuck with me, Slade."

"Thought we went over this, kid; I'm not." A lower hum of amusement, and Slade's smirk sharpens a bit. "I’m saying you don’t have to be aggressive, but if you _want_ to, I don't mind. I'll have fun with that, too."

He feels… out of his depth. This is not how alphas usually respond to him. Usually it's impatience, or frustration, or sometimes submission if his size and skill threatens them enough. He sure as hell wasn't expecting the last one from Slade, but… What the hell does he mean that he doesn't mind the aggression? Is it some kind of arrogant alpha thing, dismissing him as not being a threat, so Slade finds the challenge amusing instead of serious? Like some kind of… of snarling puppy or something?

Well, let him try and _dismiss_ this.

Jason bares his teeth and pulls out his lowest growl, deep enough that it makes most alphas back off, or at least reassess whether they really want to try going toe to toe with him. It’s backed Dick off more than once, and nearly every lowlife that’s ever tried intimidating him just because of what’s between his legs.

Slade’s eye narrows, tension lifting his shoulders slightly, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“I’m not here just so you can have some _fun_.”

Slade is still for a moment, his scent heavy in the air when Jason breathes in.

Then he lunges.

He's _fast_. Before he has time to react Slade has him by both arms and is cracking him back against the wall, hard enough he yelps, even though it’s only a brief flash of pain. Jason snarls the second he has breath and goes for the switchblade in his pocket (his ‘just in case’ weapon was not supposed to be needed this fucking fast, but _fuck_ ). It flicks open as Slade’s arm presses up against his throat, pushing his chin up and forcing him up on his toes, leaving no leverage to kick or bite. He’s still got the freedom to whip the blade up, though, right under Slade’s arm to press it tight against his skin, along the underside of his jaw.

For a second, he almost just cuts. Slade would more than likely survive it, but a slit throat would take him down for at least a little bit, give Jason enough time to get the hell out. But then reality kicks in with an icy flash, reminding him that all Slade has to do to kill him is shove. Slade might walk away from a slit throat, but Jason’s definitely not going to survive a crushed one. He loses that trade.

So he bares his teeth, grabbing Slade’s arm with his free hand to take a little of the weight off his toes. “Let me go,” he demands, only a little breathily, “or I cut your throat.”

Slade stays still. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t react at all to the threat, the fucking bastard. (Maybe he thinks it’s a bluff; Bats never kill, but he should know better than to think that Jason sticks to that rule.)

Jason snarls, digging the blade in a bit till he sees a drop of blood start to well near the tip. “I’ll do it.”

“I know,” Slade says, not sounding worried by the prospect. His head tilts slightly, not to get away from the metal as far as Jason can tell, but just to look at him. His expression’s unreadable. “You’re brave, kid. Not many people have the guts to challenge me. Not when they know who I am.”

The arm eases off his throat, and it catches him enough by surprise that Slade steps back and snatches the blade from his hand before he’s even dropped back down on his feet. He takes in a sharp breath, pressing back against the wall as Slade spins the knife between his fingers. He hasn’t got anywhere to go; Slade’s still too close to get by, and he’s definitely within reach of the switchblade. Getting stabbed is not on his list of favorite things to do.

Except then Slade flicks the blade closed, and offers it back to him.

“But so you know? I’m not going to forget that you’re dangerous if you go five minutes without snapping at me. I know what you’re capable of.”

Cautiously, Jason takes the switchblade back. He can’t quite bring himself to put it away, but he doesn’t reopen it. He grits his teeth, watching Slade thumb at the tiny cut under his jaw, then pull his hand back to look at the little smear of blood.

“You’d be the first,” he says, and it’s not— it’s not _entirely_ fair, but it’s pretty fair. Dick and Bruce, they know what he can do and he knows they don’t forget that, but that doesn’t stop them from falling back on sheltering him as the default. Maybe it’s instinct, or just a sentimental drive to protect him where they couldn’t before, but all it does is chafe. He’s just as capable as they are, just as dangerous, just as skilled; he can _handle_ it.

Slade hums a disapproving note, then finally looks up at him. “That’s a shame.”

It’s not much, and maybe he shouldn’t be taking compliments from a murderous assassin, but it’s intensely validating all the same. He breathes in a little deeper, and slowly tucks the blade back in his pocket. “Thanks, I think.”

Slade watches the blade vanish, but doesn’t comment on it. When he does speak, it’s a low, “It’s your show, kid. Be aggressive, or don’t; I can handle it either way, and it’s not going to change what I think of you.”

"And what's that?"

Slade's head tilts, gaze sliding slowly down over his chest and legs, and then back up at the same pace. "You're lethal. More than capable of killing just about anyone that crosses you. Anyone that doesn't respect that is an idiot."

Jason’s pretty sure that’s the first time anyone in his life has made a statement about his ability to kill people that didn’t come with some measure of disgust, or disapproval, or as general backhanded compliment style bullshit. It’s… kind of nice, actually. Weird, but nice.

Respect. Huh.

He narrows his eyes as Slade turns away and wanders back to the coffee machine, now finished and silent. "And you thought the best way to show that you _respect_ me was to throw me against a wall?"

"No." Slade fills one of the mugs, then sets the pot aside and reaches out to grab a small pot of what looks like sugar from the counter next to it. "Seemed like the best way to get you to shut up and listen instead of making assumptions, though."

Okay, that's… probably fair.

He watches Slade dump a spoonful of sugar into the coffee. Stir it. It's still basically black, but that's apparently good enough for him because the spoon gets discarded and the mug cupped between both hands. It looks almost comically small between Slade's palms, but the amusement is kind of dampened by the realization of how _big_ those hands are. Big enough to close around his whole neck, strong enough to snap it with probably little to no effort. Big enough to—

(Jesus _Christ_ , no, he's not going down that road. Stupid heat symptoms. Stupid brain. He doesn't need to imagine how big Slade's hands look in comparison to certain other parts of anatomy, or what that kind of size might mean for other things, or—)

"Ready for the tour?"

Jason swallows. He definitely wants that coffee now. Even if it's just to have something in his hands so he doesn't fiddle with them. "Yeah, sure." He glances at the coffee, then the counter. "Uh, you have any half and half?”

Slade tilts his head towards the fridge, and steps away from the pot, apparently to give him space to make his own cup. Yeah, that's probably fair too.

He keeps an eye on Slade as he crosses the kitchen, sticking close to the counter and pausing, briefly, to pull open the big black monstrosity of a fridge and scan through it till he finds the small carton of cream on a shelf in the door. Surreptitiously, he cracks it open and takes a small sniff to make sure it's still alright to drink. Smells fine to him; maybe Slade uses it in other things, or maybe this is just a black coffee kind of a day and he normally uses more than just one little spoon of sugar. Whatever; not his business.

He pours the coffee into the second mug, follows it with cream, and steals the discarded spoon from next to the sink to stir it together. It's fine. Slade never like, grabbed it by anything but the handle, or licked it, or anything. There's nothing contaminating about it (or sexual, god _damnit_ , brain).

When he has his mug, and he's done his best to kill the blush on his cheeks by thinking of a few decidedly unsexy things — like Alfred, Ra's, and then the two together because his brain can't stop and wow that's really gross — he turns back to Slade and nods his readiness. Slade turns and leads the way back into the main house without saying anything about his pause, or the acceptance of the coffee, or anything else.

There's no narration of the actual house, but Jason keeps his eyes open and does his best to commit the layout to memory. Most of the doors are shut, but he'd bet most of them are smaller 'guest' bedrooms or little studies or something. Kids' bedrooms, more like, but Jason's not going to touch that whole idea with a ten foot pole. Not right now.

The room Slade leads him to is at one corner of the house, the door the only one apart from the main entrance that has a keypad at it, at least that he's seen. He doesn't seem to make any attempt to stop Jason seeing what he inputs, and Jason's a little too much of a vigilante-slash-hero or whatever people feel like calling him to be polite and look away. Four-seven-two-six-eight. Nothing immediately comes to mind; but he doesn't have much time to consider it before the lock deactivates and Slade leads him inside.

It might be a security room, but it's also absolutely a bit of a panic room. There's a narrow bed against one wall, a fridge and shelf, and a door cracked open enough to reveal a set of stairs. Both doors have a wooden panel on either side, but open like they are it's easy to see that they're steel on the inside. Thick steel. It would take a meta, or some serious weaponry, to blast through those doors; the walls are probably reinforced the same way, if not even more heavily. There's a computer, a collection of screens lined up on one wall with views of just about every angle of the house, and more than a few shots from inside, as well.

He takes a quick glance through, but doesn't see the main bedroom on any of the screens. Might be an alternate feed, still, but he'll hold out hopes that it's one bit of the house that doesn't get monitored. (Doesn't seem likely, but he'll just go with it. Worst comes to worst he can come in here and wreck the backed up footage or something, right?)

Slade takes the seat in front of the console, waits for Jason to come up at his shoulder, then starts to walk him through it.

It's refreshingly straightforward. Not the system, but the explanation. Slade assumes that he understands what he's talking about, doesn't stop to explain any of the more complicated bits of how it all works, and treats him more like a coworker getting a rundown of the new system, instead of a student that needs teaching. Security cameras, defensive measures that are automatic, and the ones that can be toggled on and off. Some of them are vicious, some are _clever_ , and most are absolutely lethal. It's kind of beautiful.

The Wayne manor security systems have always been works of art, but they're all just aimed to incapacitate, or trap. None of them have the very clear, obvious intention of killing anyone that tries to get in. These ones, though… He might steal some of these ideas for his own safehouses. Some of these methods could easily be modified to work in a smaller space.

It isn't until Slade reaches the apparent end of all of his explanations, has given him the access codes and information to run all of it without so much as a blink of hesitation, that Jason realizes that he's leaning on the back of the chair, inhaling Slade's scent with every breath. He's… close. Very close.

He's only barely realized that when Slade's head turns, looking up at him without any hint of surprise. It puts his face only maybe half a foot away, an easy distance to cross if Jason wanted to, if he just wanted to lean in and…

He shoves off the chair, straightening up and stepping back, clearing his throat as he looks away. He takes a big gulp from the mug still held in one hand, now cooled enough that it doesn't burn like it did when he tried his first sip.

No. He's not kissing Deathstroke. It's not going to happen.

His gaze jumps back when Slade gets to his feet, expression not showing any reaction to Jason's slip, or his backpedal. He tilts his head the direction of that door in the corner, then leads the way towards it. It's maybe not a good idea to follow an assassin down into his mystery panic-room basement, but Jason takes a breath in and does it anyway, curious despite his better judgment. The stairs are a little steep, but Slade's got fucking long legs so probably it doesn't matter much to him; Jason only barely notices it himself, at least while he's headed down. Maybe he'll change his mind on the way back up.

There's another door at the bottom of the stairwell, another keypad that Slade's in the middle of inputting the code for when he reaches it; last digit's nine, but he misses the rest. It swings open, and Slade shoulders through and flips some kind of switch or something on the other side that floods white light out around the bulk of his frame. It isn't until he's taken a couple more steps, and Jason actually has the room to follow, that he sees what the room is.

"Holy _shit_ ," he breathes, taking one more step and then spinning in a slow circle.

It's an armory. Cutting edge guns, grenades, bladed weapons of every shape and size, older style rifles and handguns and _fuck_. There's the old Deathstroke armor, and the newer suit beside it, and various other pieces of armor and some tech that Jason's pretty sure he recognizes as prototype-only, deepest-secret-labs type stuff. Some of this he's only read random reports about, he's never _seen_ it. Some of it, also, is definitely alien weaponry. Collected stuff, probably; Jason's got a collection of that himself, thanks to his missions with both his teams. These are almost all different pieces, though.

Oh, he wants to see what they _do_.

"There's a shooting range through there," Slade's voice cuts in, yanking his attention back from the spread of weaponry and tools to where he stands, against one of the few bits of empty wall. One hand points towards the opposite side of the room, and Jason follows it to an archway that he entirely missed the first time around, heading out of the room and then branching sharply both directions. "To the right; gym and mats to the left. Try out anything you want. I can tell you what the alien tech does, if it's new to you."

His fingers itch. Fuck the security system, _this_ is the beauty. God, he wants to try _all_ of it. 

"Yes," he blurts, refocusing on Slade. He flicks his hand towards the biggest section of alien-looking weaponry. "Most of those ones are. What are the races they're from?"

Slade smirks, but pushes off the wall and heads towards the displayed pieces. Jason follows.

Slade's true to his word. He gives a basic rundown of each one — race, style of projectile, energy source or material it runs off of, dangers — and then, without prompting, gathers pretty much all of them into his arms and heads for the indicated shooting range. Jason tries not to be obvious about how gleeful it all makes him. He's pretty sure he fails. Miserably.

The shooting range is pretty impressively big, considering it's underneath a house that definitely didn't already have a natural cave system to work off of. It's well-constructed, well-lit, and big enough that you could make a decent start at testing out even a sniper rifle. Not big enough for really challenging shots, but enough to make sure the aim is true, at least. Not bad at all.

There's no shooting range in the Cave. There's a training room, holographic enemies (more recently installed) and all the assorted fanciness, but it's very specifically not set up for guns. In fact, it's set up to fail you if you use lethal force, so Jason's only used it a couple times. Mainly just to make another member of his pack happy. 'Bonding time' during training or sparring or whatever. It's not his favorite; always feels limiting.

There are holographic targets here, too, but when he uses one of the alien guns — pinpoint accuracy laser; _nice_ — to put a neat, shimmering hole through each eye and then one lower, right into the throat, it doesn't blare a disapproving alarm at him. The control console off to the side chimes faintly, and the holograph refreshes. Slade, standing off next to it, looks at the report displayed and nods approvingly.

"Not bad."

Jason snorts and straightens up. "Not bad? Like to see you do better, old man.”

He doesn't really think of it as a challenge till Slade arches an eyebrow and steps forward to take the gun from him. "What do you want me to hit?"

Shit. He didn't really think that far. Didn't think of it as anything but a comeback till Slade took him up on it. Fuck.

He crosses his arms and tries his best to gloss over the moment of hesitation, pressing his lips together like he's thinking through options, and not trying to just think of something at all. What's more challenging to hit than what he just did? Shit, he's got no ideas.

He lifts his chin, pulls up every inch of bullshit he can muster and challenges, "Make it something interesting."

Slade snorts, smirks, and very obviously sees right through his bluff. Still, he turns to the range and braces the back of the gun against his shoulder, and Jason moves around his back to stand next to the console. The gun whines, charges, and rapid-fire, inhumanly fast, Slade fires, shifts, fires, shifts, fires the third time. Relaxes all at once, easing back to a simple stance, gun lowered.

Jason looks down at the screen as it chimes. A shot to the inside of each thigh — femoral arteries; quick, painful death — and one to just below the throat, between the collarbones. It'd be a nasty, painful shot, probably lethal, but he can't see what the actual point is. So… "What's that one supposed to be?" he asks, pointing towards it.

The smirk comes back. "Bullet might not do it, but a laser like this would cut right through and sever the spine; no function below the neck drops just about anyone."

Okay, that is... interesting. He'll admit it.

He steps forward and holds his hand out for the gun, and Slade hands it over and swaps places once again. Interesting, is it? He can do interesting. And _pointed_.

He breathes in, sights, exhales, and fires. Left hand, right hand, groin, left eye. Hits every target — because he may not be Roy, but he's a damn good shot — and then definitively powers down the gun and lowers it.

He looks over to watch the reaction as the computer chimes results, and Slade glances it over.

Maybe he's half expecting anger, or offense, because when Slade just laughs, he relaxes a little. A sharp grin gets aimed his way, and Slade drawls an amused, "Touché. Nice shot, kid."

"Yeah," he agrees, raising his chin again, holding Slade's gaze. "I thought so."

Slade doesn't back down from his look, and there's an intensity there that Jason's really unfamiliar with. A… heat. "Want to try anything else? Range can be set to multiple targets, moving, random patterns, pretty much whatever you want."

"Going to keep trying to upstage me?"

The shrug is very specifically idle, Slade’s voice nearly a purr when he says, "If you want."

He doesn't really understand it, but yes, he wants. This is… it's fun, and it's… something else. Some instinct he thinks he wants to follow the urging of, even if he doesn't fully get what it's trying to do.

He grins back. "Bring it, old man."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all. Things are about to get a bit more steamy here. Hope you enjoy!

Slade's a better shot than he is.

No, not a better shot, but a faster shot. Inhuman reflexes, and the strength, means that Slade barely has to even pause for the recoil on most of the guns. He's just _faster_. Jason suspects, though, that Slade might be better with a sniper rifle than he would be, if they had a range big enough to test extreme long distance shots. Enhanced vision, even with just the one eye, and enhanced reflexes? He's good with a sniper, but he thinks Slade might be better.

It's impressive. He's not inclined to actually say as much out loud, Slade probably doesn't need his ego inflated, but he does finally exhale and roll his eyes, leaning back against the wall of the shooting range and watching Slade lower the latest of the guns they'd run through; a rifle that Jason really thought he might get the better of Slade with, since it's one of the ones in his own kit. Nope. Still, faster. Accuracy's the same, apart from some slight fractions of an inch, but Slade runs through the targets faster.

"You win," he gives, but when Slade turns to look at him, setting the rifle aside, adds, "Cheater."

"What?" Slade grins, eye narrowed slightly, the look downright predatory. He has to fight back a shiver. "Because I'm enhanced?"

"It's the only reason you're better. Faster reaction times." Slade steps closer to him, and he crosses his arms, follows the urge at the back of his head to flash his teeth, stand his ground even though he's not totally sure why. "Doesn't make for a fair fight."

He doesn't want to… run. No, that's not it. This is all heat bullshit, he's sure of it, and he wishes he knew what the hell he was doing, but nothing's ever gotten this far. He doesn't know how to match up dry textbook information with this urge to… to _lunge_. To fight. To _win_. Or… not to? _Fuck_. He had some flirtations with Roy, and Kori, and hell, a couple others too, but none of them were ever around for a heat; they'd all shut things down before that was even a question. He's always stayed isolated in these last hours.

"'Fair' only matters in tournaments," Slade comes back with, voice a low rumble. "You're a hell of a shot, kid, but this is as close to fair as you're ever going to get with me. It's just what I am."

"I could drug you."

Slade laughs. "You could try. Takes a lot to do anything to me."

Yeah, he probably burns through drugs in a flash, not as fast as a speedster, but it's the same idea. Probably means he's got a hell of an appetite, too, though Jason hasn't seen much proof of that. Maybe the enhanced endurance and such balances it out? "Would only need to slow you down for a couple minutes."

Slade shifts a little closer, lowers his voice. "Like I said, kid. You could try."

Jason swallows. Can't help it. There's that feeling again. That itch at the back of his mind, deep in his chest, to just _strike_.

There's a moment of tight anticipation, and then Slade tilts his head a bit, and asks, "Any other way you want to test me, kid?"

He blinks. "I… What?"

Test?

Slade's gaze doesn't waver. "Never had an alpha prove themselves to you before?"

He bristles automatically, until it registers that there's no pity in Slade's voice, just curiosity. Jason pauses, reconsiders what he remembers of the old sex-ed lessons, and then his own research post-Lazarus Pit, when it became obvious that no one else was going to teach him a god damn thing. Reconsiders the afternoon, the indication of Slade's interest, the access to his security system, the… showing off. Oh _shit._ Wait.

_Omegas_ , an old textbook which his head decides to give a nasal, annoying voice, echoes, _will subconsciously seek to ensure that any alpha around them during heat is powerful and successful enough to be a good mate. This hearkens back to old instinct, which required a prospective mate to be able to defend the omega against any potential threat during the more fragile months of a pregnancy, as well as provide for them during that time. A modern alpha may accomplish this 'proving' by dedicating themselves to any challenges the omega puts forth, and showing off any accumulated possessions which they believe…_

Son of a _bitch_.

Which they believe to be indications of their ability to provide. That's the end of it. Big house, damn good security system, and an armory that frankly makes him envious. Slade is _showing off_.

He's also waiting patiently, like he _knows_ that Jason's just realized that this whole night has been a test that he wasn't even aware he was giving.

"You…” Jason has to stop, clear his throat. "You thought this was going to _impress_ me?"

Slade's mouth curls in a thin smirk. "Hasn't it?"

Shit. Yes. A little. That doesn't mean he's agreeing to anything, though. He hasn't— It's not like he's _decided_ anything. Slade hasn't earned anything just by showing him a good collection of weaponry and proving he can use it, that's not—

Oh. Fuck. Now he knows what that urge is, festering in his chest, tugging at the back of his mind. He wants a _fight_.

He turns on his heel, pushing out from between the console and Slade's bulk to stride out of the shooting range and down the short hall. He hesitates for a second at the archway, thinking about the room upstairs, and everything Slade's promised. He could just take those promises as they are. Use the room, use whatever toys are there, and then leave when it's done. Simple. Weird, but simple.

His legs carry him forwards, past the archway, down to the one place he hasn't seen yet; the training room. Or gym. Slade said both, didn't he?

There is a gym, towards the back of it. Machines, weights far exceeding anything Jason can lift himself, and some aerial bars with a conspicuous lack of safety nets that Dick would probably appreciate. It's a little bit of everything, and it… smells. A little. Like gyms do. Not as bad as public ones, but that underlying hint of sweat is still there. In front of all the machines and such, though, is a big matted area, and several racks full of wooden approximations of weapons. Staves, swords, knives, and more.

He doesn't really know who would be sparring Deathstroke, but clearly that's what it's for.

Jason puts his hands on his hips and stares at it all, hearing the soft tap of Slade's footsteps behind him, unfairly light for his size and weight. Could probably be silent, if he wanted to.

Is he really doing this? Seriously considering actually letting Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, one of the _deadliest assassins in the world_ , be his first… Well, his first? Everything? Talk about fucking awful ideas, Jesus. Desperate, shitty ideas that are only going to turn around and bite him in the ass later on. What is _wrong_ with him? Bruce will be fucking furious, and Dick will be disappointed, and the rest of them will look at him like he's nuts, and… and…

And to _hell_ with all of them. They should have been there. They should have fulfilled his needs as a pack member, they should have _helped_ him. If they're going to treat him like an outcast, why should he stay loyal? Why shouldn't he take what's being offered to him?

It's one time. Slade hasn't promised anything, and he's sure as hell not promising anything either. It's just sex. Maybe his first time having it, but that doesn't have to mean anything. Right?

Yes. That's the answer. Yes, he's seriously considering this.

He turns around, finds Slade leaning against the arch leading into the whole place, watching him. Silent. Patient.

"What do you want out of this?" he demands, closer to a growl than he'd like, but fuck it.

Slade doesn't react to his tone. Just answers, calmly, "To enjoy myself. And to make sure you enjoy yourself, too."

Jason fidgets, trying to read intention off that. Or _anything_. "That's not good enough," he finally snaps. "Be specific."

Now Slade straightens. "Alright."

He approaches slowly, stops just a few feet away and looks down at him, studying and focused. Enough so that Jason feels that urge climbing in his chest again, urging him to swing, to—

"What I want," Slade starts, cutting off his spiral, "is to fuck you well enough, long enough, and enough times to make up for all the heats those uptight bastards in your pack have made you go through alone." Jason flushes, taking in a sharp breath, and Slade's mouth twitches into that same smirk. "Is that specific enough for you?"

His cheeks are burning, and there's more than a little bit of heat starting to gather in his stomach, but he forces himself to stay still, to hold Slade's gaze and not give. "And after?"

Slade is just as still as he is. "Whatever you want. Walk out, or stick around. No strings attached."

Okay. Alright. Good.

He steps back two steps, till he feels the mat under his heel. Then he reaches up to shrug out of his jacket, throw it off to the side and away from the mats. Everything else is repurposed from his uniform anyway; the steel-toed boots, the black undershirt, the dark grey pants that are tight enough not to get in the way, without being tight enough to restrict his movement. None of this is going to be a problem.

He takes the last step, tests the give of the mat — not much — with a tiny bounce of his weight. Slade's watching him.

"Beat me," he demands, flashing his teeth, sinking into that piece of his mind that's been subtly nudging him all afternoon. "That's my test."

Slade's eye flashes, his entire posture shifting. For a moment he stays just like that, barely even shifting to breathe, intent enough that every one of Jason's instincts shifts into high gear. He nearly vibrates, caught between threat, and anticipation, and every inch of fight or flight that years of life or death situations have taught him to trust.

And then Slade _laughs,_ teeth flashing in a grin, eye narrowing. "Alright, kid."

Jason breathes in, moving backwards as Slade starts to advance, backing up till both of them are on the mats. Slade's in jeans, his mind catalogs. He probably won't have quite as good a range of movement, but they'll absolutely protect his legs from nails or anything else. He's got a button-up shirt too, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. The buttons would be easy to snap off, the hanging fabric might get in his way. Jason's going to need every fucking shred of an advantage he can get in this fight, if he wants to stand even the smallest chance.

"Just going to stand there?" he taunts, falling back on old habit. Harass an enemy, make them mad, and they're much more likely to make a mistake. Maybe not the best idea for this, but it's what he knows.

Slade lunges at him, but this time he's ready. Ducks under, goes for a sharp jab to the ribs that Slade knocks aside and answers with a grab at his arm. He _just_ gets out of the way. It's a hell of a dance, pushed to his limits, not quite landing hits, barely avoiding Slade's. He's big, _fast._ Faster than anyone Jason's faced in a long time. And then he slips up.

He strikes and knows, instantly, that the punch is aimed too high, and too far to one side of Slade's chest. It leaves his side open, and Slade's already going for it, it's going to be a hell of a hit to his ribs, it's going to _hurt_.

Except it doesn't. Slade knocks a leg out from under him, grabs him by the shirt and shoves him down, and he staggers and hits the ground rolling, throwing himself into it to make as much distance as possible. Comes up already having to jerk backwards, Slade in his face, grabbing for him again.

That's weird. Grabs are definitely not the way to win this. Slade's faster than he is, stronger, arguably just as skilled and as knowledgeable about pressure points and everything else. Bringing him down fast would be the better way to do it, just get him down, make him yield, and win the whole thing.

Jason snarls as Slade finally gets a grip on his wrist, reeling him in and taking the hard punch to his chest with a grunt before he catches his other wrist too. His arms are tugged outwards, stretched wide enough he can't do much of anything with them, and he's too close to kick with any decent power without trusting his weight to the grip on his arms; definitely a bad idea. Another bad idea is the one he goes for, rearing back and then snapping his head forward towards Slade's. It'll hurt like a bitch — he likes his helmet for practical reasons, not just the aesthetic — but if he's lucky he'll break Slade's nose as well as bruising up his forehead.

Slade lets go and jerks back, and he misses entirely. Staggers again at the sudden change, has to reorient himself and barely does it in time to dodge Slade's attempted sweep of his legs.

Alright, what the fuck? Is Slade fucking with him? Or... What? What's going on? Why won't Slade just _hit_ him? 

He gets it, suddenly, when Slade tanks another hit to his shoulder to wrestle him into a bear hug. The arms around his chest are inescapably strong, and Slade gives a pained grunt into his ear and drops down to one knee when Jason kicks the calf out from under him, but doesn't let go. And then he turns his head enough to try sinking his teeth into Slade's throat, and one of those arms shifts up and hooks under his throat to pull him back and thwart his attempt. It's there, but there's a bewildering lack of any real pressure, and it's as he's trying to wiggle free, and get his teeth in something hard enough to make Slade let go, and figure it all out that Jason suddenly _gets_ it.

It's a fight, yes, but there's so much more to it than that. After that, if Slade wins, he might join him for a heat, he might have sex with him, he might be allowed to do all of that and more. _Might_. So it's _not_ just a fight. Slade can't hurt him badly enough to stop any of that from happening, and can't _get_ hurt badly enough to stop everything either. Slade would heal in time, sure, but if Jason gets a cracked rib, or a bruised throat, or anything else serious, he's done. He's not sharing a heat with fucking anyone, especially someone with enhanced strength, while he's hurt.

Slade has to beat him without hurting him. _That's_ what he's asked. It's a hell of a lot more of a challenge than Jason thought he was giving, but obviously Slade saw it for what it was right off the bat. And agreed anyway. He really thinks he can do this. If, of course, Jason's right about things.

Well, he's got an easy way to test that. If Slade won't hurt him, than he can get out of this without a problem.

He snarls, braces just in case he's wrong and he's about to severely fuck up, and jerks his throat forward against Slade's arm. There's a moment of pressure, the warning of his body that he's about to hurt himself, and then Slade's grip slackens and lets him drop his head.

He's _right_. Well in _that_ case…

It only takes threatening to dislocate his shoulder to get out of Slade's grip, and then he drives his elbow back into his ribs with all the force he can muster. Enough to get him an audible shove of expelled air, and cause enough of a distraction that he can get out of reach.

Everything in his mind reorders itself. Slade won't hurt him. Not seriously. So that means that he can use every reckless, stupid move he's ever learned that's damaging to you and your opponent both. There won't be any punishment for it; Slade's only choice is to wrestle him down into a pin and hold him there until he submits.

He's got no fucking intention of submitting.

With the rules shifted, the fight gets very different. Jason takes every chance he can to land a hit, no matter how it leaves him open to retaliation. He presses into locks until Slade has to let go, when he does get hold of him, and pushes Slade on the defensive when he can, pushing away the cautious part of combat that's always been drilled into him and for once letting instinct lead the charge to attack, and _attack_.

He rips Slade's shirt open in one struggle, and leaves long scratches down his chest the next. Slade snarls but doesn't do anything but pull away, and Jason bares his teeth in a wild grin fueled by the scent of blood and strikes again.

It goes and goes. Longer than most fights Jason's been a part of, at least where he’s only up against one person. He can’t manage to do enough damage to take Slade down, even temporarily, but Slade isn’t quite managing to keep him in a pin, either. It's come close a few times, but Jason's always just managed to wiggle out of it, threaten enough damage to one or both of them to get out.

He's tired, though. Slowing, his strikes losing power as he pants through his teeth, trying to conserve energy by shifting back on the defensive. Not the best kind of style to use against someone like Slade, but he hasn't got much choice. He can be defensive, or he can burn through the rest of his energy and still not get anywhere.

He's going to lose. The knowledge creeps up on him slowly, between still-powerful grips at his arms, and on his shirt, even as his struggles weaken.

Slade might be tiring too, but much slower than he is. Benefits of being enhanced. Jason can't keep up. Maybe he can… stall, but he can't keep up.

There's something thrilling about that.

Finally, Slade knocks him to the ground, and he barely even manages to roll onto his back before Slade's dropping down over him, straddling his thighs and grabbing his forearms, shoving them down at either side of his head. He doesn't have enough energy left to really fight it, but he squirms and snarls as best he can while he struggles to catch his breath. He can't quite reach Slade's hands to claw them, or crane his neck far enough to bite, and he doesn't have enough in him to buck hard enough to make any difference, not now.

Still, he tries. Struggles and snarls up at Slade with a last burst of desperate energy, fighting the inevitable for as long as possible before, trembling, panting hard enough to hurt, he reaches the end of everything he possibly has to give.

Slowly, he falls still, and something in all that instinct raging under his skin knows exactly what's going on, even if he's only got the cut and dry sex-ed version of all of it in his head. No one's ever kept him down long enough to force a submission out of him, and fights like this don't usually involve him being remotely attracted to his opponent. Submitting has never been a viable option. Not ever. Not till this fight, right here, with Deathstroke leaning over him, bloody and bruised in all the ways that he's not because of how much care Slade showed in winning.

And he has. Won. Jason can't… He knows that, bone deep.

He shudders, entirely unrelated to the tremble of exhaustion in his limbs. No, it has everything to do with how he holds Slade's gaze, instinct guiding every moment, and then very deliberately tips his chin up and arches his neck a little, enough to expose the length of his throat. Enough to _give_.

Slade's grip on his arms flexes, and he rumbles a pleased, deep sound. Jason shudders again, eyelids flickering as he waits for the pressure of teeth on his throat, the heat of breath as Slade claims what he's won.

He's released.

Slade settles back, lifting both hands to comb his hair back along his scalp and out of his eyes, and it's damp enough that it stays. Slade's skin's slicked with sweat, he's breathing hard enough to be noticeable, and there are bloody scratches over his chest and forearms. One very small one on his jaw where Jason just managed to reach him, one time. They've all already stopped bleeding; enhanced healing in the works, to go with all the rest of it.

Slade leans down again, a hand bracing against the mats right next to his head as he stares down. "So?" he asks, low enough to be quiet, deep enough it makes Jason want to whine, just a little. "I pass your test, kid?"

It takes Jason a second to come back to himself enough to remember that's what this was. He blinks for a couple seconds, then realizes in a burst that not only did Slade abso-fucking-lutely pass his test with flying colors, but he's _asking_. He _had_ him — pinned, submitting, throat bared — and he let him go to make his own choice, instead of taking what was offered in his victory. He could have…

He didn't.

Jason takes a breath in, reaches up, and yanks Slade down to him by each side of his ruined, torn, bloodstained shirt. Kissing, at least, is something he has a passing familiarity with. Far more than sex anyway. Press your mouth to theirs and let the good times roll, that’s about the gist of it.

Kissing Slade, though, soon turns out to be far different than anyone else he’s kissed before.

Almost everyone he's kissed before has been happy to let him take the lead. Maybe it was just his size, or that he knew what the fuck he was doing when it came to everything else, but pretty much all his past experiences he's been the one in charge. Until they realized what they were doing and backed the fuck off, anyway. He's used to guiding kisses, used to his partners giving while he takes.

Slade, on the other hand, gives a rumbling hint of a growl and nips sharply at his lip, and takes his gasp as an opportunity to slide his tongue inside his mouth. A hand slides under the back of his head and pulls him up, fingers curling into his hair and supporting the demanded arch of his neck. His grip on Slade's shirt tightens, a whine building in his throat as the tongue in his mouth explores it with slow deliberation, and each breath he takes in through his nose is a dizzying mix of sweat, blood, and the concentration of Slade's scent. Heat builds between his legs, not the overwhelming intensity he knows is coming, but a suggestion. Enough to make him want to roll his hips up, enough to make him wish Slade had pinned him with his legs spread so he could feel that weight between his thighs.

The hand at his head eases him back onto the mat and slides free, and with a final scrape of teeth Slade pulls away. Not far, though. When Jason opens his eyes he sees Slade's nostrils flare, the flicker of his eyelid as he inhales and his teeth flash. There's a low rumble, almost more vibration than sound, and he can see Slade's shoulders shift, the muscle in his chest tense and then ease again.

When he lifts his gaze from that sight, Slade's eye is on him again. His voice is deeper than Jason even knew it could get, asking, "Do you want to wait?"

He almost asks what for. Then his brain catches back up and he remembers the entire point of all this.

The heat. He can feel it there, at the edge of his consciousness, but it's not on him yet. He's still got maybe a day left, unless he's misjudged. (Or unless it kicks in early; there was something about that in the textbooks, wasn't there? Proximity to powerful alphas inducing early onset of heats, or something?) That's why he's here.

It doesn't have to be, though. Right? He could just be here to try what his family has always denied him; he doesn't have to do it in a heat. There doesn't have to be that… _excuse_.

He shivers. "No. No, I don't."

Slade's mouth curls into a smirk. "Good."

Jason swallows, one last piece of it all lodged in his throat, sticking uncomfortably until he opens his mouth and says, "They'll come after you."

Bruce. Dick. Maybe others, if they care. If they think he was mistreated, or something. Jason's got too much respect for the skills and paranoia of his pack to think that they won't find out, somehow.

The smirk sharpens. "Bats don't scare me, kid. They want to pick a fight, they're welcome to try."

His breath comes out in a sharp rush, the tangled mess of emotion in his chest threatening to choke him. He forces it down with a shaky laugh, and comments, "I'm pretty sure you're the one picking a fight."

Slade's gaze flicks over his face. "Might be. If I gave a shit about any of their reactions."

"Do you?"

Slade's laugh is steadier than his. "Not even remotely, kid."

He finally manages to let go of Slade's shirt, and when he touches the side of his neck the skin is warm and damp. Vibrates slightly under his fingers as Slade makes some sound he can't even really hear, and tilts his head away to offer him more room to explore.

He breathes out and takes the invitation, lightly clasping his hand over the side and back of Slade's neck. "Good."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here, guys. This is it. Have fun!

Somehow, in a whirlwind of hands and lips and his legs around Slade's waist, they make it up from the basement and back to the master bedroom, where Jason left all his things. He's the one to shove his bag off the bed, as Slade lays him out on the covers and crawls over him, shirt dropped somewhere between here and where they started and Jason honestly doesn't give a shit where it ended up. He's much more interested in running his fingers up over the hard, defined lines of that chest, up onto his shoulders.

Slade seems more interested in that, too, and in all but lying over him, mouth at his jaw, his ear, his neck. Then he laughs, sounding smug as shit when he says, "You didn't change the sheets."

Jason groans, dragging his fingers down Slade's sides and tilting his head back against the pillow. Of course that would come back to bite him. "Fuck off. All your extra sheets smell like disinfected hospital linens, okay? It's fucked up."

"Like my scent better, hm?"

"Than disinfectant?" He takes in a sharp breath as Slade grazes teeth over his throat, and fingers find the bottom hem of his shirt. "Yeah, that's not much of a competition, jackass."

Slade, at least, seems more interested in sliding his shirt up his chest than continuing to tease. All the way to his armpits, and then Slade's shifting down and nosing at his chest, hands stroking broad swipes up his ribs before gripping higher, thumbs just under the edge of his pecs.

He's just getting over the surprise of the little swell of heat that the breadth of those hands inspires when Slade's mouth comes down on one of his nipples, and he gasps in shock at the wet heat, the drag of a tongue. He's messed with them before, by himself, just to get off, but it's a completely new sensation to have someone else touch them. The rub of his own fingers is nothing like Slade's mouth either, none of the heat, or the hot puffs of air, or the graze of teeth that makes him jerk and strangle back a whine.

Suddenly the grip on his chest makes sense. If Slade wasn't holding him still, he's pretty sure his jerk would have slammed his chest right into his face. Held like this, though, he can only squirm and try and press into the touch, his head arching back, hands jumping from Slade's shoulders to his hair. Still damp, but he doesn't care even a little bit. His thighs press into Slade's sides, venting just enough of the sparks zinging down his spine to keep him sane.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps, gritting his teeth.

Slade purrs in answer, teeth very lightly closed down, and _wow_ , that's an experience. The vibration alone is enough to jar free that whine in his throat, let alone the scrape of the teeth as Slade lets go, or the way he exhales hot over the dampened skin immediately after. Then there's the _chill_ as he shifts and leaves it alone, and Jason only understands the intention a fraction of a second before Slade's mouth closes over the other nipple.

His fingers tighten in Slade's hair, pressing hard enough to try and keep him there, maybe forever. Not that it matters. When Slade does move to pull back, his attempt to hold him still doesn't even remotely matter.

There's a part of his mind that says that maybe he shouldn't find that hot, but it's pretty much drowned out by every part of him that very emphatically _does_.

Slade shifts down, teeth somehow finding every sensitive spot along his ribs to pause at, and tease, and sometimes close over and draw between his teeth till it gets that low, distant ache that Jason can easily identify as bruising. Hickeys. Slade's giving him _hickeys_.

He almost laughs at the sheer absurdity of that thought, except then Slade reaches the waist of his pants and pretty much all his attention sharply refocuses. Jason swallows, and Slade looks up the length of his chest to meet his gaze, pausing there with hands settling at either side of his waist, the width of his chest pressing his legs wide apart.

He doesn't think he trusts himself to speak, but he can nod and let go of Slade's hair, lifting both arms above his head and curling his fingers into the pillowcases instead. Slade dips his head and presses a kiss to the innermost edge of his hip, right at the notch there, and then repeats it at the opposite side.

Jason's not totally sure what he was expecting, if he even had an idea of what he thought Slade was specifically going to do, but it wasn't for him to pull away and sit back on his heels at the edge of the bed, one hand running down the outside of his leg and then encouraging him, with a small tug, to bend it up. He does, but doesn't actually get it till Slade's fingers fall to his boot, pulling the knot of the laces apart with deft ease.

Oh, yeah, alright. That makes sense.

His boot comes free, sock joining it in being dropped off the edge, and he moves to straighten the leg back out on automatic but Slade’s hands stroke up his calf slowly instead, warm, powerful but precise. He barely realizes he's holding his breath until Slade looks up at him with a smirk, clearly knowing exactly the reaction he's inspiring. He flushes, and the smirk becomes a grin before Slade lowers his leg and turns to the other one.

His grip on the pillowcases tightens when Slade lets go of that one, too — both his feet bare — and brings both hands back to his waist. He shivers. No one's ever— He's never been naked in front of anyone except when he was hurt in awkward places, and then there was always a sheet, it was always professional.

Nothing about this is professional.

"Still good, kid?"

Jason's gaze jumps up from the hands at his waist to Slade's face. There's still a bit of a smirk there, but the look in his eye is sincere, and the touch at his waist lightens to a barely-there brush of fingers as he breathes in. It's bizarre to think about, spread out on the bed like this, Slade shirtless and kneeling between his legs, but he's pretty sure if he said no, Slade would… leave. No, he's not pretty sure, he's completely sure. He could still stop this, if he wanted to.

He doesn't.

Jason wets his lips, nods. "Yeah. I just… Lots of firsts. I’m good."

Slade watches him for a moment more, then echoes his nod. Smirks wider. "You're not the first virgin I've introduced to things, kid. You'll be fine."

The flush blazes back onto his cheeks. He scowls, almost snaps before Slade's hands move to his belt. He swallows instead, and only barely manages to string together, "Pretty sure I was promised better than 'fine.'" After that, though, it's easier to find his stride and add, "Trying to lower my expectations?"

His belt comes apart. Slade's thumb pops the button at the top with ease. He sucks in a breath as the zipper slides down, baring the red briefs he had on underneath, back before all this started. Thank fucking god he wore something basic, and not one of his older pairs, or some of his more… patterned ones. He doesn't quite want to imagine what Slade's reaction would be to his Wonder Woman underwear.

"You can have any expectations you want," Slade answers, fingers curling over the top of his pants and slowly easing them down off his hips. "It's not going to compare to the reality."

He shivers at the brush of fingertips against his thighs. "Arrogant, much?”

Slade shifts forward to lean back over him, leaving his pants at the top of his thighs and bracing a hand just beside his head. "I've had a lot of sex in a lot of years, kid. Benefits of my enhancements, I know when someone's really enjoying themselves, and when they're faking." He grins. "Lucky you; you get to reap those benefits, too."

Jason's absolutely sure that Slade can hear the faint shake to how he inhales. "What, you think I'll be faking?"

The needling gets him a laugh. "No. The only thing you'll fake is composure, kid.” The grin is wickedly sharp, and full of promise. “I guarantee it."

He doesn't have an answer, and he doesn't get to think of one before Slade leans down and kisses him, stealing the breath from his lungs, along with any hope of actually coming up with an answer to that. The thing is, he believes it, too. Maybe he wouldn't, if it was someone else, but there's something about Slade, about how he moves, about how he seems to know exactly what he's doing and how to make even stupid things — like pulling off his fucking boots — seem intense that makes Jason believe that yeah, he isn't going to be faking anything.

And if he did try faking composure, or something, well, Slade would see through it anyway, right? So what's the point? Why not just be honest? It's not like Slade doesn't know what people are like when they're feeling pleasure; it's not like he's going to be surprised. Probably. (Unless his reactions are fucking weird and no one's ever had the opportunity to tell him, but he doesn't even want to think about that.)

Slade's free hand touches his side, skates fingers down his ribs and to the edge of his briefs in a sure sweep. The kiss distracts him, but not enough to miss it, and not enough that he doesn't shudder when they trace the waistband to his navel, dipping under the edge just enough to let it snap back against his skin. The pillowcases suddenly aren't enough anymore, and Jason reaches up with sudden need, wrapping his fingers back into Slade's hair with one hand and grabbing at his back with the other. His fingers skim over sweat-slick skin till they find purchase on the ridge of one shoulder blade, standing out from how Slade's angled to one side.

He wants… If that hand could just be a little _lower_.

Slade doesn't seem to need him to say anything to get it, because the hand at his briefs shifts down and cups what feels like his entire groin, palm along the length of his cock and fingers pressing in a bit further down, pressing the fabric in against what's underneath. His hips roll into the touch, nails digging into Slade's back. He's pretty sure he whines, but it's muffled enough in the kiss that he can't really hear it, even though the way that Slade hums approval makes him think that it was audible to him, at least.

The kiss breaks, Slade's mouth shifting down to his jaw, then his neck when he arches it back after he rolls his hips again. The pressure's good, the dig of fabric just slightly _in_ enough to make him want way more than just that.

"That's it, kid," Slade murmurs in his ear, teeth closing lightly against the shell of it. "Not bad, huh?"

Not bad? Not _enough_.

"Stop _teasing_ ," is what comes out of his mouth, hips pressing up into the touch, his teeth baring at thin air. "Come _on_."

Slade chuckles, nipping at the side of his throat hard enough to make him flinch — somehow not in a bad way, which he doesn't at all understand — before pulling back, shaking off his hands as if he wasn't clinging hard enough to bruise, at least. "Patience, kid. We'll get there."

Jason presses up, feeling wild, _wanting_. "Think I've waited long enough."

He grabs Slade's arm, clamps his thighs around the hips between them, and _twists_ with all the strength he can pull together. He knows, by the fraction of pause before it works, that Slade's letting him do it, but still it feels good to flip them over, shoving Slade onto his back and settling over him. His shirt falls halfway back down from where it was bunched, and he growls, irritated at the brush of fabric where he only wants skin, and lets go of Slade just long enough to rip it off and throw it off the bed.

Slade's gaze slides across his chest, hands settling at his hips. His pants are suddenly completely unacceptable too, caught halfway down his thighs, limiting how far he can spread them. He needs them _off_.

If there's a graceful way to do it, he doesn't know it. He feels awkward as hell, struggling to get them off his legs, but finally he flings them off the side of the bed too, and then he's kneeling over Slade's hips in just his briefs, and it all catches up with him. He has… _no_ idea what to do. He knows he wants, but he hasn't got a clue what beyond the obvious, and he's pretty sure that's a little more than he's ready for quite yet. He knows the skin-to-skin is good — he definitely feels better now he's stripped off pretty much everything — so maybe… Slade's jeans? Get him naked too?

He starts to shift, and then Slade's grip on his hips tightens and tugs him forward instead. "Come here, kid."

Jason doesn't really have any choice but to go with it, following the pull of Slade's hands till he's straddling his chest, and then with another insistent tug it's not his chest but his face, and _oh_. Oh he gets it. Slade smirks up at him from right between his legs, and _rips_ the briefs right off him with one sharp yank. He sucks in a breath at the sting, but then Slade's taking his hips again and pulling him down, and the gasp turns into a moan that feels wrenched right from his chest.

He's had his own fingers, and toys, but none of it came close to replicating what it feels like to have Slade's tongue lap the length of his slit, and then push _in_.

He shudders, bending back and then forward, trying to push into Slade's grip and finding himself held utterly still. Some combination of that realization and the insistent invasion of Slade's tongue inside him pulls another moan free. Slade hums, and maybe it's approval at his reaction, or maybe it's just because the vibration of it goes right up inside him, and it's so much more of a subtle vibration than the intensity of a toy but it still makes him strangle back a keen.

The tongue pulls free, laps at him again, and then one of Slade's hands lets go of a hip and strokes over his ass, down to the inside of his thigh. It takes him a couple moments to comprehend Slade's, "Grab the headboard, kid," as actual words.

He has no idea what else to do with his hands, so he does it. It's a wooden headboard, and his fingers curl easily over the top of it, anchoring him in a way he didn't know he was missing. He hangs his head down between his arms, just in time to feel the graze of fingers against his slit. Slade's mouth shifts higher, lapping over one of his balls, then the other, and a finger slides, slowly and inexorably, inside of him. That's a feeling he's not unfamiliar with, but it's strange not having the feedback of the other side, and Slade's finger is… a lot bigger than his.

The headboard creaks as his grip tightens, and he presses down. With one of Slade's hands now between his legs, he actually can move a little bit. Enough to push that finger deeper in him, and press himself down against Slade's mouth. He whines, sharply, at the press of lips and tongue to the root of his cock. It's almost too much.

A second finger slides in next to the first after the next outwards pull, and he expects some sting, or stretch, but there's only building heat. Satisfaction, when he clenches down and can feel the width of those two fingers in him, but also a craving back behind his pelvis for _more_.

And, joining all the rest of the sensation, a tightening at his core that he absolutely recognizes. Jesus, already? Really?

"Slade," he gasps, and gets a chuckle right up against his cock that nearly makes him yell.

He tries to speak again, but then Slade's shifting a bit higher on the bed and tugging him down, and he has the perfect angle to watch Slade's mouth part around his cock as he takes him in between his lips. Wet, warm heat, like around his nipples but about a thousand times more intense, and his breath catches hard in his throat, his whole body shuddering and flexing and trying to push in, and down, and against all of the different touches at once.

The two fingers in him thrust, working up a steady rhythm that he can _hear_ in the squelch of his own slick. Slade's tongue slides around the head of his cock, and the coil behind his pelvis is tightening with every breath, till he feels like he'll snap right in half with even a touch more of _anything_.

Slade doesn't just give him a touch, he growls and it's like a full body _shove_.

The yell barely feels like it comes from him. He shakes and curves down, clinging to the headboard, as the coil explodes. He tightens and clenches around the weight of Slade's fingers in rippling waves, and he can feel himself spill into Slade's mouth too, can feel it as Slade swallows and the sensation drags another spurt from him, somehow. He didn't know it could feel so drawn out, but there's the suction of Slade's mouth, and the fingers keep their pace, and it goes, and _goes_.

And right on the edge of too much, when there's a desperate whine building in his throat and his jaw's starting to clench, it stops. Slade pulls slowly off his cock, easing him backwards, and the fingers buried in him slow to a deeper, unhurried roll. The whine turns into a shuddering moan, languid ease relaxing the muscle of his back and arms, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Slade's fingers slide free, and he almost protests except Slade's moving too, pushing his thighs wider and pulling him back a bit. He pries his eyes open to find that Slade's moving him so he can sit up, lean his back against the headboard and have him over his lap. He shivers, his hands letting go of the headboard to come to Slade's shoulders instead, elbows bracing on them and his fingers coming behind Slade's neck to tangle in the hair at the base of it. His head lowers, bracing against Slade's shoulder as he rolls his body up against his chest.

Slade lets him, exhaling warm and heavy against his ear.

Jason's not sure he's come that fast in his whole life, not satisfyingly, anyway. He can jerk off easy enough, just to get rid of being hard, but that tends to feel a little empty. There was nothing fucking empty about that, except how he feels now.

Slade rubs against the side of his neck, and then stops his roll with a harsh tug downwards, flattening him down against— against—

"Feel that?" Slade asks, hips flexing up against him and pressing the unmistakably hard, hot, _big_ bulge beneath the jeans into him.

He whines, hips twitching as he tries to grind down and can't, held still for the upwards press of Slade's hips. The jeans are really not comfortable, and he really doesn't fucking care.

He pulls one of his arms back, digs his nails into Slade's shoulder and presses his thighs in as hard as he can against Slade's waist. It's enough to pull a grunt from Slade, and Jesus, Jason can _feel_ the twitch of Slade's cock under the fabric.

"Easy, kid," Slade breathes, his voice tight with strain. "Easy."

He doesn't want to be fucking _easy_. He snarls, and doesn't even think before he _bites_ , sinking his teeth into the shoulder he's leaning his head against and echoing it with a hard rake of his nails over the other. Slade jerks, hisses and drags him in tight enough the grip on his hips aches a bit. There's blood on his tongue, and he has just enough time to realize what he's done and let go before Slade's laughing, rough and as strained as his voice was.

"Alright, alright." Slade nudges him back, and he's grinning when Jason gets a look at his face. Bleeding, from both shoulders — oh shit, whoops — but still grinning. "I get it, kid."

He swallows, a little of the heat smothered by the taste on his tongue, and a sudden sharp worry that he might have fucked up. Slade doesn't look like he's pissed, but that might not mean anything. "Uh… Sorry."

Slade rolls both shoulders back as he leans forward, hands sliding up from his hips and stroking up along his waist and sides. "It'll heal." He noses underneath Jason's chin, grazes teeth over his throat and sweeps both hands back down to grip his ass and squeeze. Jason bucks forward, finds himself grinding down against the bulge of Slade's cock without being stopped this time. "As long as you're not trying to break anything," Slade murmurs against his neck, "be as rough as you want, kid. I can take it."

He shivers, chases the sparks between his legs by pressing down again. The, "Okay," is almost absent. He gets it, but with the worry easing he's way more interested in the heat between his legs that hasn't even started to go away.

Slade's fingers flex against his ass, roll his cheeks and then pull them apart, and he feels himself flush. He didn't know he had blood left to go anywhere but south, but apparently there's enough left to be embarrassed about how that feels. He's not even sure why he is; Slade's whole head has been down there, it's not like some groping is any worse than that. It still _feels_ different.

"Hold on, kid," Slade warns him, still no more than a murmur. Then the hands split, one arm bracing along his spine, the other gripping a thigh, and Slade hefts him up off the bed and then rolls them both over. He clings, but Slade pulls back from him, pinning him down with an easy hand at the center of his chest. "Stay right there."

It's a command he doesn't really have any intention of following, even before Slade moves away and off the bed. He doesn't get why till a leg lifts, boot bracing on the bed so Slade can lean down and unlace it. Jason rolls onto his side, shivering faintly at the slick slide of his thighs as he watches. One boot comes off, then the second, and he bites his lip as Slade's hands drop to his belt. The big fingers seem unfairly dexterous, undoing the latch, and then going for the button and zipper. Jason feels like he would have fumbled, but Slade doesn't seem to have even the slightest problem getting his jeans undone, or shoved down.

He has to let go of his lip or risk biting through as he stares at the boxers Slade has on, and how they are absolutely only barely containing the swell of his cock. He watches Slade's hands come to the waistband, thumbs hooking underneath, and there's a pause before they shift down an inch, baring a little more of the hard muscle of his hips, and _pausing_.

"Should I be charging you for the show?" Slade teases, and Jason drags his gaze up with a glare.

He doesn't actually manage anything witty, or even annoyed, because in the next moment Slade shoves the boxers off his hips and lets them drop, and his gaze snaps right back down to the skin revealed.

It's definitely big. Bigger than his own, maybe bigger than the glimpses he's caught in the shower stalls over the years from other Bats, though it's not like he was actually looking at any of them. Or that they'd ever given him the chance to catch more than flashes. That was mainly limp, anyway, and this is definitely not limp. This is hard, and still angled downwards — probably cause of just the weight, Jesus — but he doesn't think it's going to get much bigger than that. It doesn't look like it, anyway. It's not… _different_ than his own, it's just differently shaped, and maybe a little bit different colored. Functionally, it's the same.

Except for that faint swell just before the base; almost nothing right now, but Jason's watched enough porn to know exactly what the starting hint of an alpha's knot looks like. That definitely counts as a difference.

Slade puts a knee on the bed and reaches out, catching one of his calves and dragging him across the covers with a hard pull and a predatory grin. He yelps in surprise, and Slade catches his other leg easily enough and drags him right to the edge of the bed, his legs spread to either side of Slade's hips, hands coming to press against the inside of his thighs and push them wider. He'd realized when he was first in here that the bed was higher than most, but he hadn't actually made the connection that it's exactly, perfectly hip-height for Slade, which means it's exactly _fucking_ height.

His breath comes sharp, his fingers digging into the covers, head tilted slightly back in instinctive offering even as he shudders. He's wet, and the spread of his thighs leaves him a little open, and he can't help but clench at the thought of that cock sliding into him, spreading him, filling him.

Slade's fingers pet the inside of his thighs. "Not yet, kid," he rumbles.

Jason can't even begin to stop the whine, and then the frustration makes him bare his teeth and snarl, just a little. "I'm not fucking fragile," he snaps, curling his fingers tighter in the covers. "Slade—”

" _Jason_ ," Slade cuts him off with, not sharp but commanding. One hand lifts from his thigh, curls around the weight of that heavy cock and strokes it, drawing his eye. "This is a lot, kid. It's a lot for anyone. I'm not going to leave you sore right before a heat, so you can bite and claw and bitch as much as you want; you're still going to have to wait till I say you're ready. Got that?"

He doesn't _want_ to, but fuck, yeah, he gets it. What the hell is he going to do to stop it, anyway? Throw Slade down and just fucking mount him? It's a hell of an image, but he's not that strong, and he'd never manage it without Slade letting him. Besides, he's… Slade's got the actual experience. Jason might not _like_ it, but he knows better. The bastard.

He bares his teeth, growls and holds Slade's gaze for a few long seconds to make sure that it's clear that he _doesn't like this_ , but nods.

Slade chuckles, and lets go of his cock. "Good. Then lie back and enjoy, kid."

Slade pushes his thighs open and kneels down, mouth dropping down between his legs again. Ah, _fuck_.

It's only a minute before Slade's hands join his mouth, fingers with the tongue, and Jason finds out that he can hook his thighs over Slade's shoulders comfortably, tilting his hips up and making everything a little better angled. He moans and claws at the covers, digging his heels into Slade's back and arching his back off the bed in turns. It's all a little sharper than it was before, a little more intense as heat builds to an inferno between his legs. He must be fucking dripping, but Slade doesn't pause or stop, just fucks him with tongue and fingers both, eats him out like he's got no intention of ever stopping.

His cock's not fully hard again, not yet, and the orgasm Slade draws out of him is slower and deeper, rattling through his bones as he cries out and rides it. Slade works him through it the same way he did the first time, not stopping until it starts to become too much to bear, and then his head lifts, wet lips pressing kisses against his thigh as he pants. He feels boneless, too wrung out to even do more than twitch as Slade's fingers slide out of him. He manages a soft moan, though, when Slade slides what feels like both thumbs back into him, and then pulls him open.

It's bizarre having air curl inside him like that, and he shudders at the thought of what it has to look like. Slade makes an approving sound, though, and the embarrassment retreats somewhere back behind the lazy pleasure. The thumbs slide out of him.

"That's it, boy," Slade praises. "Look at you."

His eyes flicker back open as Slade eases his thighs off his shoulders. He watches him stand, then swallows and drops his head back, giving in to whatever Slade wants to do to him.

That's apparently climbing back onto the bed with him, pulling him up till his head is back on the pillows, and Slade's over him once again. Hands ease his thighs open, and then Slade stretches up over him and grabs one of the other pillows, lifting his hips with one hand — he feels himself clench down, at that easy show of strength — and pushing the pillow in under them with the other. It leaves his hips propped up, at an easier angle, he quickly realizes.

Slade presses close to him, and Jason's breath hitches as the length of that cock comes up against his, sliding hot and slick along the length of his slit as Slade slowly rolls his hips. It takes him just about until Slade sits back, hand coming to his own cock to stroke it, to realize that he was coating it in his slick. That pulls a hitching moan from the depths of his chest, and Slade looks up and catches his eye, mouth drawing into a smirk.

He shifts forward slightly, lifts up on his knees, and Jason feels his breathing pick up as the head of that cock presses against him. It feels as big as it looked, suddenly. Impossibly big; too much to fit, even though he's seen bigger ones in porn, watched them push inside omegas much smaller than he is. It still _feels_ like there's no way that it gets inside him.

Slade rumbles, deep and comforting. "Relax, kid. Trust me."

He does, is the thing. Somehow, he does.

He breathes in, and nods, letting his body ease back against the bed. There's pressure, a reassuring slide of a hand up his thigh, grasping his hip and pulling him down slightly, and then everything _gives_. He gasps, his head tossing back as Slade's cock slides into him, intense but painless, slick and smooth and so _easy_ it feels stupid to have ever worried about it. And the second it starts to catch, Slade's pulling back, the length starting to slide free just as easily. Jason clenches down and whines in sharp protest, and some slides back into him in a sudden push. His back curves into an arch, thighs pressing in around Slade's waist and hooking ankles around his back.

Slade's hands flex against his hips, and there's a quiet groan and a laugh. "This'll work better if you let me move, kid."

Jason tries to pull him closer. It doesn't work. "So _move_ ," he demands, breathless as he forces his eyes back open to look. " _In_."

Slade's got a crooked smirk on his face, and heat in his eye. "Alright, we can do it that way. Bear down, kid. Push."

He wants to say something about it not being birth, but then Slade leans into him and starts to press his hips forwards, and apparently the mechanics of getting big things out or in are pretty much the same. He pushes, and Slade slides _in_ and deep, till it almost aches, till their hips press tight together and Jason feels like trembling, sure that he can't possibly fit more, and at the same time that this is _right_. There's a moment where the world is still, everything poised, and then he clenches down and feels every inch of Slade buried in him, hot and hard and filling every corner, and he moans.

Slade leans down over him, hands coming off his hips to brace against the bed instead. He offers his throat and Slade presses his teeth into it, hard enough it stings but doesn't break, and everything feels perfect. He wraps his arms around Slade's back, lets his thighs fall open a bit.

The toys he had before were smaller, but that's not even the biggest difference. It's how alive Slade feels inside him, and how completely unlike a toy the active roll of his hips is, setting a slow, powerful rhythm that fills him so deeply he feels breathless with every thrust. He clutches at Slade's back, lets his head stay tilted back as Slade sucks marks into his throat and shoulder. Every breath smells like him, like sex, a cocktail that it doesn't take much of to make him almost dizzy, lungs working harder to keep up with the exertion and only swamping him with more of the scent.

Gradually, in time with how his body tightens and starts to want somehow even more, Slade picks up speed. Jason finds himself instinctively falling into the pattern of it, rolling his hips up to meet Slade's, forcing him deep enough that the end of every thrust comes with a muted flash of pain, deep inside him.

He's loud, and he knows it, but the one time that he tries to strangle the noises down Slade growls and demands, " _No_ , boy. Let me hear you."

Even if he wanted to keep trying after that, he can't bring himself to fight that command. So he moans, and whines, and clutches at Slade's back and shoulders. The embarrassment falls away quickly enough, hidden behind every other sensation fighting for his attention. Slade fucks into him, and there's absolutely nothing he can do to stop how he soars and topples, riding out a third orgasm as Slade continues to thrust, breathing hot against his throat.

He doesn't stop this time, though. It's too much, and Slade keeps going, driving into him and pushing him through it as he squirms and heaves ragged breaths in, digging his nails into Slade's back.

"Jesus," he gasps, arching, shaking. "Jesus, _Slade_."

"One more," Slade growls into his ear. "I'm going to knot you, boy, and you're going to come on it. _Then_ you can be done."

He whines, and trembles, and doesn't have any choice but to ride that painful edge of overstimulation till the pleasure of it somehow wins out over the pain, and he feels _so close_ again, despite how fast it is. Balancing on an edge that he can't seem to tip over, strung high and tighter than he knew he could be.

He doesn't notice, at first, the extra stretch at the end of every thrust. Then all at once, he does. He _wants_ it.

He shoves down in sharp desperation, out of rhythm, hard enough to jar Slade out of his for a moment, too. Then Slade stabilizes, fucking him in short, hard thrusts that he can feel the stretch of, as Slade's knot starts to swell. He thinks he begs, but he's not fully conscious of it; he doesn't know if it's anything more than animal sound.

Slade's hand pins one of his shoulders down, and he pulls back enough that Jason whines in protest, eyes pulling open. Slade's not far from him, watching every twitch of his expression, teeth flashing with every breath he takes.

A thrust hard enough to jar all the way through him, then a second, pushing in and stretching him wide, with just a fraction of a second of struggle before there's that same _give_ as when he first fucked in. The knot locks, and _god_ it's big, heavy and intense just inside of him, pressing _everywhere._ Slade groans above him, hips grinding in against his, still working in tiny thrusts for a couple moments before he shudders and stills. And Jason can _feel_ it, the sudden rush of heat, deep inside him. How his body reacts instantly, drawing sharp and tight around the knot, enough to make him cry out and scrabble at Slade's back, before going lax.

Coming is almost inconsequential. He can feel the rush of slick around the edges of the knot, and he feels the splash of his own come on his belly, but all of his attention is on that repetitive tightening and relaxation. Milking, he knows the word is, and he's felt it before but nowhere near this powerful, and there's never been something that big inside him to draw tight on, almost aching every time. And there's a _rush_ of pleasure with every squeeze, like he can't come down, like every one is an aftershock.

He can't catch his breath. It takes him a long time to realize Slade is murmuring to him, fingers stroking across his cheek and jaw. The first thing he actually hears is a rough, "No idea how good you feel, kid."

He shudders at that, loses his breath again at the next contraction and whines softly, tilting his head towards Slade's fingers.

"That's it," Slade praises. "You're taking it beautifully, boy. So gorgeous for me."

Jason pries his eyes open, looking up into Slade's face. Focused, intent on him, and his mouth curls into a small smile.

"Hey there, kid. Enjoying yourself?"

He shakes through another contraction, gasping. "It's— _Slade,_ I—”

"It'll ease off in a bit," Slade promises. "Your body's overreacting a bit; first time, oncoming heat. It'll be easier next time."

He grits his teeth, finds enough spine somewhere to say, "It _better_ be," and almost have it sound something like threatening.

Slade chuckles, leaning down to kiss him and steal what little breath he's managed to get back. When they break, Slade groans softly and scrapes teeth across his jaw. "You smell incredible, boy. Taste it, too. You've got no idea."

"Think I do," he grits out. Maybe it's not _his_ smell, but every time he manages even a bit of a breath he gets smacked in the face with Slade's scent, and god, it smells fucking good. Usually smelling sex and sweat just makes his nose wrinkle, but apparently it's very different if it's _his_ sex and sweat, or the person he's fucking.

The next contraction is a little weaker, finally lets him take in a deep breath without feeling like he's shaking apart. He starts to relax. Slade hums approvingly.

A minute or so later, Slade grips his hip tight enough to pin them together and rolls, pulling him on top. He groans in protest, but quickly enough finds that he doesn't mind. It leaves him all but lying on top of Slade, head ducked down under his chin and hands stroking at his back and his hair. And ass. They dip low enough, once, to tease the edge of where Slade's buried in him, and then he growls and Slade laughs and pulls them away.

No, absolutely not. He's tired, and he's just finally been able to relax. No touching. He doesn't mind the ass-groping so much, really. That's not sensitive.

He feels almost asleep when Slade finally jostles him, gripping his hips and lifting them, slowly. He groans, shuddering at the slide as Slade slips free of him, and the strange emptiness as he reflexively clenches down, feeling… open. And wet. So wet.

He kind of wants to just stay right there, but Slade rolls them both over and then sits back, hands hooking under his knees and hitching his legs up till they're spread, hips tilted upwards. He grumbles first, kicks lightly to show his displeasure, then opens his eyes and looks down when that doesn't get him released.

Slade's… looking at him. Studying the open spread of his legs and whatever his slit looks like with obvious desire. The look pulls a weak shudder from him, a not-as-weak thrill of arousal, and makes him clench. He can _feel_ how that makes slick — maybe not just slick, maybe come, too — slide out of him, and it's obviously visible, too, since Slade makes a very deep, very aroused sound and his teeth flash.

"What are you doing?" Jason asks, and even to himself he sounds breathless and maybe a little into it.

Slade's gaze flicks to his. He gives a small grin. "Admiring my handiwork."

Fuck. He didn't really know that his body could still manage to pull a blush up, but somehow it fucking does. "Fuck off," he grumbles, pulling lightly against Slade's grip. He's almost surprised that Slade lets go, letting him curl up on his side with a huff. Less surprised that Slade then crawls over him, mouth lowering to his shoulder and pressing a kiss there.

"I'm going to go run a bath," Slade says against his skin.

He turns his head, squints up. "I don't want a bath." He wants to stay right here and take a nap, in fact. Getting up sounds like a lot of work.

Slade nips at his shoulder, light enough it barely even stings. "You will in about ten minutes. Besides, soaking some will help with the bruises. Shower first, then soak. You can sleep in it, if you want."

That does sound… nice. Damn him.

He grunts noncommittally, and buries his head into the covers. Slade chuckles and climbs off the bed, padding off across the rugs. Jason cracks his eyes open to watch that, admiring Slade's ass as it flexes with every step. He vanishes into what Jason knows from earlier is the master bath, and yeah, it does have a truly enormous tub in it. Easily big enough to fit them both; probably the point.

He hears the water start.

Yeah, alright. He'll get up for that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, hope you and yours are doing okay during this trying time. Here's some more porny Slade spoiling Jason content to help you through <3

It's kind of amazing to stand under the shower, leaning up against Slade's chest, and just let himself be washed. It is one-hundred percent possessive alpha caretaking, and usually Jason hates that kind of bullshit, but this is nice. Slade washes out his hair, soaps him down and rinses it off, the scrub of a loofah — he snickers, a little — sort of perfectly rough against his skin, scraping off that layer of dried sweat from their earlier fight. And he is realizing, now, that he's got some sore points from that.

The ache of overused muscle, mainly. Exerting himself so heavily in the fight, and then the intensity of the sex, has definitely left him a little weak in places. But hey, that's a bonus of all this, apparently. He can let his exhausted limbs stay loose, trust his weight to Slade's grips, and let himself be manhandled without having to worry about it. Only when he's completely clean, and he's woken up a bit, does Slade nudge him to stand on his own so he can wash himself off, too.

That's a sight. All that water sliding down Slade's frame, suds from the soap following the dips of muscle, sliding down his back and right along the crack of his ass. Jason admires it all, and when Slade catches him watching, he just shrugs, feeling remarkably unconcerned with Slade knowing that he's admiring. Obviously he knows he's attractive; so what if Slade knows Jason thinks it too?

Slade smirks, finishes scrubbing the soap off of his arms, and then pins him up against the wall of the shower and kisses him breathless. Jason's honestly got no idea at that point if the slick between his thighs is old, or new. What he does know is that he's not as tired as he thought he was.

Slade pulls him into the bath, easing him into the almost-too-hot water and pulling him down to lie up against his chest. And no, he is most definitely not as tired as he thought, because Slade is slippery under the water and very, very naked, and the slide of skin against his is very new and very arousing. He feels Slade hardening up against his back, and when Slade's hands wander down between his legs, he doesn't stop them.

Fingers twist into him, thrusting and exploring, and he leans his head back against Slade's shoulder and rocks his hips into the touch. It's only a minute or two before Slade's knees spread his legs wide, and a grip of his hips lifts him enough for Slade's cock to catch and then slide into him on the release, gravity doing almost all the work. He moans, Slade's guiding grip and the help of the water making the lift feel effortless, and he rises till he can feel just the head of the cock inside him before he drops.

This time's slower, more relaxed, and he drifts in the haze of it, eventually letting Slade take over the rise and fall entirely when his thighs start to tremble. Distantly, he can hear the splash of water, and he knows they must be getting it all over the floor but he can't find it in himself to care. Whatever; let there be a mess. Slade will deal with it, and he's much more invested in the slide of Slade's cock in and out of him, fucking lazily up until his knot swells for the second time and ties them together.

Maybe it's because he's more relaxed this time, or less desperate, or just because his body's decided it doesn't need to overreact, but he shudders through an orgasm as the knot locks in place and then everything goes loose. There's the rhythmic contraction, but it's limited to his groin and thighs, not his whole body. He eases back and just rides it, lazy pleasure keeping him warm, his face tucked into the crook of Slade's neck and Slade’s hands stroking along his skin.

Slade comes loose faster this time, too. He accepts the exploratory touches to his slit afterwards, the gentle slide of fingers inside him. It doesn't even feel arousing, just comforting, and he nuzzles against Slade's neck and hums, feeling on the edge of sleep with that soft pleasure keeping him languid. He almost has fallen asleep when Slade's fingers finally leave him, hands squeezing the inside of his thighs enough to wake him.

"Come on, boy; let's get you to bed."

There's a thought in the back of his mind that it can't be that late, but he still lets Slade all but lift him out of the tub, standing on the towels strewn over the floor — soaked with water; _sneaky_ — and letting Slade rub him dry, his eyes drifting shut.

It's a little startling, but he doesn't complain when Slade picks him up and carries him out of the bathroom and back to the bed.

He slides between the sheets — smelling like Slade, and him, and a bit like sex — and buries his head in one of the pillows. The light outside his eyelids goes dark, and a couple moments later the bed shifts as Slade climbs in behind him. He's big enough to press all the way along his back, knee pressing in between his thighs and a heavy arm settling over his chest. The pillow under his head shifts a bit, and Slade's mouth presses to the back of his neck.

Jason sighs and tilts his head a little further down, easing into the warm brush of kisses over his skin, the odd feeling of actually being surrounded, and protected. Kori feels a bit like that, but he'd never wanted to get too close to what he knew he couldn't have. This, though… This he can have.

Has had. Twice.

Hah, Bruce is going to be so pissed.

* * *

Jason wakes up warm, and slow. There's an edge under his skin, a current, and he shifts and stretches into it, rocking down against the heat pressed between his thighs. He sighs softly, and presses back into solid warmth as he gains a little more awareness. Slade. Sex. Heat. There's a very hard cock against the small of his back, nestled against his ass.

The arm still looped over his chest shifts, fingers coming to one of his nipples and lightly rolling it. "Morning, kid."

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, leans harder back against Slade's weight. "Morning," he echoes.

Slowly, Slade shifts back under his weight, till he's lying half on top of him and the other arm can loop around the back of his shoulders and come to his other nipple. Slade's thigh is still between his legs, crooked up now so it's easy for him to grind down against it, and grind he does. The hand with more freedom abandons his chest, sliding down until it can wrap around the half-hard weight of his cock in a loose grip.

He pushes into that, rocks down against Slade's thigh, and finds an easy rhythm between the two.

"Good," Slade murmurs against his temple, other thumb rubbing his nipple flat with slow circles. "Get yourself off for me, boy."

It feels easy to obey. He grinds his slit along the hard muscle of Slade's thigh, fucks into the tunnel of the grip around his cock, and the pleasure builds. He doesn't even think to use his hands till he's already come, slow and easy, Slade's thigh wet with his slick. He eases back once it's done, lazily chasing the last threads of pleasure with an idle rock against Slade's thigh.

Only when he's relaxed again does he feel the hard, hot weight of Slade's cock underneath his hip. He reaches for it, sort of blindly, but Slade's hand catches his wrist.

"I'll wait," Slade tells him, when he makes a questioning sound and turns his head to look back at him. Slade inhales through his nose, eye closing briefly. "Only a couple hours, now. Don't want to tire you out before we're even started, do we?”

He shifts, feels the rub of the cock against his skin. "Don't think it'd matter," he points out, squeezing Slade's leg with his thighs for a second.

Slade pulls his captive hand out from under the blankets, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. He's smiling, but still says, "Still, I'll wait. I'll make breakfast; you want to join me in the kitchen, or should I bring it to you?"

That sounds so… lazy.

Fuck it, if he's doing this, he's doing it all the way. "Bring it."

Slade nips at his knuckles, then pulls out from underneath him and stands. There's morning light coming in through the gaps in the curtains, and as Slade stretches it plays along his skin. Jason feels a sharp, powerful bolt of arousal. Slade glances at him with a smirk, so undoubtedly however the hell he knows, he _knows_ , but doesn't call him out on it.

"Coffee?" he asks instead, and it's through a teasing grin.

Jason remembers, with a flush, the confrontation from the night before. "Yes."

Slade leans over him, kisses him with an easy, confident possessiveness that leaves him flushed in more places than just his cheeks. "I'll be back in a bit," he says, when he draws back.

"Yeah," he agrees, clearing his throat a little. "Alright."

He watches Slade stride off out of the room, apparently not caring that he's naked, or that his cock's still hard between his legs, or that it's sort of cold outside the blankets. Then he sighs and stretches, twisting his back and feeling it give in a couple places with muted pops. He feels… good. Really good. Relaxed and sated, and with just a little bit of an ache in his legs, the kind that he could work out with a bit of stretching and exercise.

Well, he's definitely going to get that.

He can feel the heat, too. It’s that current underneath his skin, the lingering warmth underneath it that's got nothing to do with being under the sheets and blankets. Yeah, Slade was right; he's got a couple hours, then it'll really hit.

Normally he'd be jittering out of his skin right now, annoyed and just waiting for it to hit, trying to cram in as much work as possible before he's forced to succumb to the urges. Now, though, he doesn't feel that. He's aware of it, but he doesn't feel that pull. He just feels… lazy. Relaxed and sort of sated, with the undercurrent of the heat that tells him that he could definitely get off again, if he wanted to. And he does kind of want to, but he doesn't _need_ to.

Definitely helps, knowing that when his heat does really hit, Slade will be there. He's not going to be alone for this one, and he can only imagine what the sex in a heat might be like, if the sex outside of it was already that good. Heat's supposed to make everything more intense; what'll that be like?

The thoughts are definitely relighting that fire in his stomach. He sighs and rolls over, throwing the covers back and padding towards the bathroom. Before any of that, he needs to pee. Especially if there's going to be coffee and food. The bathroom's been cleaned up — he actually has no idea if Slade did it before joining him in the bed, or sometime in the middle of the night; he doesn't remember — so he pushes the door mostly closed and does his business, running his tongue over his gums.

His toothbrush is still in his bag, he thinks, but he should hold off on that till after food and everything. Slade's probably not going to cook anything too complicated, so it'll just be a few minutes before he gets back. He's done the toothpaste-before-coffee thing before, and he would prefer not to do it again. He'll just rinse his mouth out for now, and go for the toothbrush after breakfast.

He's right. He pads back to the bed and stretches out in it, and it's only a few more minutes before Slade comes back in. Two plates balanced on one arm, two mugs in the other hand, still very much naked although no longer hard. Not that it's that much smaller, limp. Shower, apparently not a grower.

Jason snorts softly to himself.

He sits up as Slade offloads everything onto the bedside table, and then climbs back in beside him. Jason steals peeks at the plates, and has enough time to identify toast as one of the things on it before Slade hands him one. A piece of toast, yeah, with butter on top of it, but also an omelet, with what looks like bacon in it. That was… fast. Very fast. Cook bacon, and make an omelet, and toast, and the coffee?

Slade takes his own plate and leans back, handing him a fork. "Enhanced reflexes make for easy multitasking," he says, completely random if not for what Jason was wondering about.

That still means doing all of it at once, and maybe Slade's got enhanced reflexes but he still only has so many hands. He must have practically been running from one place to another to get all this done at once. Naked. Cock swinging all over the place.

Jason snorts. Way less quietly than his first one.

Slade arches an eyebrow.

"Sorry," he says, covering his mouth as he snickers, just a little. "Just… imagining that. Kind of wish I'd seen it."

Slade takes the first bite of his toast, watching him over it with gentle amusement. "Maybe later, kid."

"Sure," he says sarcastically, cutting off a piece of the omelet with the fork, "definitely going to be time for that in between all of the heat stuff."

"There will be." He actually sounds sure about it, too, like that's not an utter impossibility. Jason opens his mouth, and Slade cuts him off with, "When your body actually gets what it wants, kid, it'll settle down much faster. You'll have plenty of time around the sex if you want that; promise."

Oh. Well, fuck. He could have had actual still productive heats this _entire time?_ He didn't actually have to spend the whole time in a haze, fucking himself sore and trying to convince his body that plastic and silicone was real flesh? God, that's fucking— fucking infuriating.

He scowls at the plate. "Fuck."

Slade leans over and nuzzles his ear, pressing a kiss just below it. "Eat your food, kid."

He does. It's good. He could have made better, but it's tasty and none of it's burnt so as free food goes it's completely acceptable. The coffee's got the same amount of cream that he used last night. Slade was paying attention.

That makes something in his chest warm.

Once the food's gone, he leans into Slade's side and sips at his coffee, letting his mind turn things over. All of it. Maybe it embarrasses him a little to not know things that apparently are common knowledge, but that does make Slade a good source of information. He hasn't been mocked at all, either, which is nice. This might be a safe place to get answers.

"Why didn't I know that?" he asks first. "Media always references it as like, this constant haze. Like it is when—” _You're alone_ , he doesn't finish.

"Most people don't bother," Slade answers, thankfully apparently not needing him to finish the sentence. "Sex tires people out, and most omegas aren't interested in leaving their dens during a heat anyway. It's easiest to spend the time between sleeping, or eating, holed up with whatever partner they've got. If you're a little more efficient, though, you can get all the basic necessities done and still have some time left over to work on whatever you want." Slade smirks over his coffee. "But that's not as _cinematic_. More dramatic to represent it as some kind of needy, sex-crazed haze.”

Jason snorts. "That's annoying."

"Is what it is. Media's not usually real accurate about much else either."

"Fair."

"It can be fun, though," Slade adds on, "to not be efficient. I certainly don't intend to be.”

"What do you—?" He only gets halfway through the question before he sees Slade's expression, and immediately gets it. "Oh."

It only takes the thought of that — Slade's head back between his thighs, and his _tongue —_ to bring heat back to life between his legs. He shifts, clearing his throat and surreptitiously squeezing his thighs together. Except he knows that it's not subtle, and that even if he'd managed to make it that way, Slade would still be able to smell his arousal. Completely unfair. A little hot.

"Like I said," Slade murmurs, blatantly smug, "efficiency is overrated. I'll make sure you get enough time to watch me cook, though, if you're so interested."

Nothing he can think of to say isn't going to dig him deeper into the hole, so he just brings the mug up to his lips and stares resolutely into its depths as he drinks, trying to clear that image out of his head well enough to take his blush with it. Slade chuckles and loops his closer arm around his shoulders, tugging him closer but leaving it at that.

He finishes his coffee more or less in peace, only sort-of plagued by memories of the night before, and all the pleasure of it. Then he climbs out of the bed, pretends that Slade watching him with an avid eye doesn't at all fan the desire building in his gut, and retrieves the bathroom kit from his bag so he can retreat to actually clean his teeth.

The toothpaste still tastes a little gross after the coffee, but it's not nearly as bad as the other direction. He brushes his teeth, wets his fingers and combs through his hair with his fingers to at least get rid of the worst of the bedhead, and then heads back to the bed. Slade meets him halfway, tugging him into a kiss. Mostly tasting like coffee, but also a definite hint of morning breath that he makes a face at.

Slade laughs, but does head into the bathroom for, presumably, his own turn.

Jason considers carrying the plates and mugs out to the kitchen, but it's cold enough outside the sheets to be uncomfortable, and he doesn't really want to walk through someone else's house naked. Definitely not that comfortable. There's a lot of wooden floors out there, too, and he's not going to put on socks and everything else to make one trip through the house, just to strip it all off in like an hour.

Which is a lovely list of excuses to ignore the dirty dishes, and climb right back into the bed to enjoy the rest of the warmth. He's not going to fall back asleep with the coffee in him, but that doesn't mean he can't just relax some.

He hears Slade come back out of the bathroom, pick up the dishes, and then head out. He must not actually wash them, because it's only a minute before he's back. The bed shifts on the opposite side that he's expecting, and he cracks his eyes open to find his bag up on the bed, still unzipped how he left it, with Slade already circling back around to 'his' side.

"If you decide you want to work," Slade comments, before he can ask. "Or read whatever that book in there is."

That actually sounds nice.

He pushes up and reaches over, digging into his bag till he finds the stored book and pulling it free. Collected Shakespeare in Portuguese. He can speak it pretty decently, but he's still working on the reading. He knows the plays so well that it's usually the first thing he goes to, trying to teach himself to read some new language. Makes translation easier when he already knows what the text is supposed to say.

Slade slips into the bed at his side, lying down and stretching out, head ending up near his hip now that he's sitting back against the headboard. The exhalations of hot air over his skin are a little distracting, but he breathes out and cracks the book open, pushing aside the sensation. It doesn't take long for him to get lost in the words. It never does.

Then an arm hooks over his thigh. He startles, jumping a bit, but the hand now high up on his inner thigh stays where it is, and when he looks down, Slade's eye is closed, head still buried against his hip. He swallows, takes a deep breath in, and refocuses on the book. He's hyper-aware now, though, and when the fingers on the hand curl, tracing little circles on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, drifting very slowly higher, his breath catches. He shivers.

" _Slade_."

The bastard doesn't even open his eye. "Hm?"

"I can feel that."

"Yes, I noticed most of your nerves do still seem to work." It's dry and amused, and still the fingers trace feather-light, incomprehensible patterns across his thigh, creeping closer towards his groin.

He grits his teeth, and stubbornly decides to ignore it. It's just a touch. He can still focus.

He gets through a couple more pages, and then Slade's fingers are just a fraction below the seam of his thigh and groin, and he realizes he's read the same sentence four times and completely forgotten where in the play he's at and what it's supposed to say. His breath's coming sharp, and it hitches as Slade's fingers circle that tiny bit higher, and come closer, and _reverse_.

The whine bursts free before he has any chance of stopping it as Slade's fingers stroke a much firmer, straight line right down his thigh to where they started. So far away from where he now wants them, from the heat he was stoking, from fucking everything that that touch was promising.

"You— You _jackass_ ," he gasps, glaring down at Slade's now very much open eye.

Slade laughs, hand firmly lower on his thigh, and just broadly cupping it. "Did you want something?" he asks, like the bastard he is, and follows it up with a very deliberate nip of teeth against Jason's hip.

He shifts, wanting to pull his thigh away and maybe rub them both together a little, but Slade easily holds him still. He snarls a bit. "Well _now_ I do, asshole. I was _reading_."

The visible eyebrow lifts. "You're welcome to keep doing that. I'm not stopping you."

"If by 'not stopping' you mean not physically covering my eyes, sure." He glares, but Slade doesn't even bother to pretend to look repentant. The side of his mouth that he can see is pulled up, and he doesn't know whether it's a smirk or a grin but he knows it means Slade is messing with him, and there's no way he gets anywhere with the book.

He closes it with as much of a snap as the paperback covers will let him, throws it back in the bag, and then turns his glare back to Slade.

"Happy now?"

Slade pushes up far enough to nip at the lowest of his ribs instead, and drawl, "Ecstatic," through what he can now see as a grin.

Then he pulls entirely underneath the sheets and shoves his thighs wide, and Jason's head jerks back against the headboard hard enough he's pretty sure he gives himself a bruise. He gasps, hands shooting underneath the covers to grab Slade's head, except that they're intercepted and pinned to his hips instead, leaving him utterly helpless against the assault of Slade's mouth.

Somehow that makes it all so much more intense, or maybe it's that his heat is surging to life under his skin with every twist of Slade's tongue, leaving him squeezing his thighs in against Slade's shoulders and crying out into the open, empty room. He struggles, gets no relief from the tight, easy pin of his wrists and hips, and has no option but to finally come apart under Slade's tongue, back arching away from the headboard, slit aching for something more substantial than the tongue inside of it as he clenches tight and shakes through an orgasm much more intense than the lazy one of before-breakfast.

When he falls back, Slade shrugs back the sheets and finally lets go of him, wiping his wet mouth and beard off on the back of an arm and commenting, "I think that's a good start, don't you?" through a smug grin.

Jason pants, and snarls, and lunges at him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Just a bit of fluff for you guys, here in the middle of all this. Enjoy!

The heat's radically different than any of the ones Jason's had before.

First, obviously, there's the fact that he's actually having sex. Which is… yeah. Wow. He's seriously annoyed that he's been missing out on this his whole adult life because it's kind of fantastic. Then again, maybe it's good that he did, in some ways. Maybe Slade is exceptionally good (he seems to think so, anyway, arrogant bastard), and it's a weird sort of blessing that Deathstroke is the first person with enough balls to get past who his family is and treat him like an actual individual, horny, person. Maybe it would have been a shitty experience if he'd had it sooner, with someone else.

Secondly, Slade is absolutely right. Once the sex is done, his head clears back up. Sometimes he just passes out, too tired to even think about doing anything else, but he spends a very satisfying amount of time doing other things too. Some minor work on his laptop for that trafficking ring he hadn't quite finished tracking down all the loose strings of, some reading — very firmly away from Slade's wandering hands, now that he's learned his lesson on that front — and a few times curled into Slade's side, letting his brain vegetate and watching random TV. Only things that he doesn't mind missing some of, though, because Slade's hands tend to wander during that, too.

It's probably the first heat he's ever had where he doesn't spend the majority of it frustrated and miserable. Oh, there are some frustrated times, but it's all Slade being a teasing son of a bitch, instead of being because he just _can't_ satisfy himself, no matter how he tries. There's no misery, either. None of the loneliness, or fear, or aching pain of being alone and desperate, rejected by everyone close to him. Just pleasure, and satisfaction, and the steady companionship of someone both dangerous and safe enough that he doesn't feel even the slightest hesitation falling asleep, or relaxing.

The little paranoid part of him that always worries what will happen if someone gets inside whatever safehouse he's in while he sleeps, if they find him in heat and desperate, is gone. With all the security he got a look at, and Slade right there next to him most of the time, there's no doubt in his mind that he's safe. Even if anyone could get in without waking him, they'd never get past Slade. He hadn't realized how draining it was to have to worry about that till he doesn't have to deal with it anymore.

It all does still feel like a haze, but only in that Jason doesn't keep track of time very well, and the days just sort of pass without him realizing. Slade provides whatever he needs, and when he wakes up in the middle of the night and the live current under his skin is really, truly gone, it somehow is entirely a surprise.

He breathes in, half-awake and exploring that new, lazy contentment suffusing every inch of him by stretching his legs out, feeling out the lack of real desire. Slade shifts behind him with a sleepy grumble, the arm hooked over his chest pulling him back with easy strength, hot breath fanning out over the back of his neck as Slade presses closer to him. Jason exhales as slowly as he inhaled, not seeing any reason to fight the lingering fogginess of sleep hazing his thoughts. There's nothing driving him to get up, so he doesn't. He buries his head against the curl of Slade's arm underneath his head, and lets it pull him under once again.

The next time he wakes, it’s to fingers combing through his hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp in repetitive, slow lines. Jason sighs and shifts, breathing in the now-familiar scent of Slade, the smokiness and metallic tint underneath comforting in ways he never really expected it to be. It’s… safe. Slade smells safe. Or… like safety, he thinks.

Maybe not a great connection for his mind to be making, but it’s a little late to fix that now.

Jason yawns, widely enough that his jaw actually cracks, the faint ache of it waking up as he shifts it back and forth with a soft grunt, trying to ease the faint stiffness out. Definitely a new feeling, that one, but then so was what caused it. A new… challenge. One hell of a challenge. That is not what he learned to suppress his gag reflex for, but as side benefits go, he’ll take it. Even though his throat does feel a little bruised, now that he's not in heat.

“How you feeling, kid?” Slade asks, from just in front of him. The fingers break their rhythm to comb some stray strands away from his forehead, as he blinks his eyes open.

He’s greeted by a plane of muscle and short, curly white hairs that it isn’t hard to recognize as Slade’s chest. He must have rolled over during the night. The arm under his head is still there, though. Biceps make for sort of hard pillows, but he can’t deny that it’s sort of weirdly comforting to have that proof of strength right there. It's a hell of a bicep. (Not that Slade needs visible muscle to toss people around; perks of super powers.)

He tilts his head back, and Slade meets his gaze, steady and very fully awake. Judging by how settled he looks, probably has been for at least a few minutes. Weird, that Jason knows that now. How Slade looks having just woken up, versus having had a few minutes.

He shifts a little more intentionally. Hides his grimace by ducking his head down against Slade's chest. "Sore. Tired." His voice comes out rough with more than just sleep; yeah, definitely a little bit of bruising for his throat. Well, whatever. It was fun at the time. "I’m alright. Heat’s done."

The fingers go back to lightly scratching at his scalp. "I know." There's silence for a few moments, until Slade asks, "Do you want to leave?"

He should. The heat's done, the agreement is over. Jason should get out of here, get back to work, and try and cover as many of his tracks as possible to delay his family finding out. He won't succeed, but maybe he can at least obscure the details, or just cover things up well enough that it takes a while for Bruce to figure it all out. Delay the yelling and the disappointment — and then the inevitable cold shoulder — long enough that he's not still aching from the act itself.

Fuck, he doesn't want to do _any_ of that.

He groans softly. "What's the alternative?"

Slade makes a noncommittal noise, doesn't stop petting him. "Stay.”

Jason snorts, but doesn't move. Those fingers in his hair are really nice. "Yeah right. You say that like it's easy."

"Isn't it?"

No. He's got work to do, and presumably so does Slade. He can't just laze around this house forever. He can't…

Wait. What does that mean? Does 'stay' just mean physically stay, keep Slade company, have sex outside his heat and just… be around? It has to, because there's no way it means what it sort of sounds like. There's no way Slade actually means he wants him to stay, as in _stay_. With him. Together. As in dating?

There is no fucking way Slade Wilson, Deathstroke the Terminator, is asking if he wants to _date_.

Jason squirms, and can't manage to keep the, "What do you mean by 'stay'?" behind his teeth. He feels like an idiot for even asking.

Slade sounds amused. "Are there multiple definitions?"

He frowns and pulls back enough that he can tilt his head back and look Slade in the eye. " _Yes_."

At least right now, with Slade saying something that he can't possibly actually mean. He has to be misreading it, that's all. Slade just likes sex, he's said so himself, so he's inviting him to 'stay' for more. That's all. Has to be.

Slade gives a low, brief rumble, and the hand in his hair slides free to stroke fingers down the side of his face instead, to his neck. "Stay here," he says, quietly, sincere as far as Jason can hear. "With me. I could help you wipe out the rest of that trafficking ring; I have connections that you don't."

It doesn't mean what it sounds like. It _doesn't._ It _can't_.

"Yeah," Jason says, flashing his teeth because it's the only reaction that comes to mind, "and what would you charge me for that?"

Slade doesn't react to his aggression, as usual. "I don't charge partners."

It takes a second for him to actually comprehend that. Then he tenses.

He pulls away, ducking out from under the brush of fingers at his neck until he can sit up, dragging the sheets with him to hold to his chest. He can't pin what the emotion in his chest is, but it's tight and fluttery, and he doesn't at all like how it makes him feel. It's sharp-edged and warm all at once, and it only gets worse as Slade pushes up as well, leaning close to his side.

"Don't," he warns, eyes squeezing shut as he tenses, waiting for the brush of lips, or fingers.

It doesn't come.

Jason opens his eyes, turns his head enough to find Slade sitting next to him, watching him with steady focus. Not touching. Not trying to touch.

"You said no strings attached," he accuses.

Slade shrugs, as relaxed as he is tense, apparently unconcerned with his panic. "I said that you could walk out, or stay. Whatever you wanted. There don't have to be strings if you don't want them, kid."

Jason stays stiff, words frozen in his throat. He doesn't… This is not what he went into this expecting. It can't be real, either. No one's even wanted him for sex, so it's fucking ludicrous to think that Slade, of all people, would want to be his 'partner,' too. It's just some stupid game, and he shouldn't be surprised, or hurt, or anything else. This is Deathstroke, he should have expected it. He shouldn't have let his guard down.

Slade makes a considering noise, and lifts a hand. It's almost painful how slowly it reaches for him, but Jason doesn't stop it from lightly taking his chin, pulling his head over to look right at Slade's narrowed eye.

"Kid," he starts, deep and quiet, "I'm not going to do anything you don't agree to; you've got my word."

He swallows, tongue locked behind his teeth. Slade lets go of him and pulls back, climbing out of the bed and lifting both arms in a stretch. Jason pulls his gaze away from the expanse of mostly smooth skin, totally clear of all the marks he made, even just from last night. Not like him. He knows his shoulders and neck (and more than a few other places) are a mess of various colored marks, collected over the days of being here. It's entirely unfair.

"I'm going to take a shower," Slade announces, not looking at him. "Feel free to join me, if you decide you want to stick around. Otherwise, you know how to disable the security."

He still can't find the words to answer as Slade heads for the bathroom. The door gets shut behind him, this time.

Privacy, he realizes after a second. Slade's giving him privacy. With the water running, and the door closed, it's possible Slade's hearing might not be good enough to hear him leave, if he's quiet about it. He can't say that for sure, but it's possible. A much better chance than if the door was still open, anyway. He can be pretty silent when he puts his mind to it; wouldn't be that difficult to get dressed and get out. Make a stop by the security/panic room to disable the defenses so he can get out without getting shot or tased.

Thing is, he's still not sure he _wants_ to leave. Not really.

This is probably just some fucking game. Use him for the heat, pretend to want more, then drop him the second Slade's through with whatever he needs him for. It's just a stupid trap, playing on what Slade's obviously identified as a weakness. Jason knows he's got his issues; abandonment, rejection, neglect, et-fucking-cetera. He knows enough about psychology to be able to fit a lot of words to himself that he'd rather not think too deeply about, and obviously Slade can, too. He's always wanted someone to be interested in him, to _want_ him. Slade's just being fucking cruel, pushing all those buttons.

Unless he's not. Unless this is somehow real. It couldn't be, though, right?

How could Slade possibly know that he's interested? They had barely any time outside of the heat, and even there it was already affecting his behavior. Slade doesn't know him. Frankly, he doesn't know Slade either, even though if it goes either way, he definitely knows Slade better than Slade knows him. Heats affect the alphas present for them, but not nearly to the same level. Slade's intensely in control of himself, anyway. Chances are good that he was more or less how he always is; powerful, arrogant, sort of an asshole… Attentive. Respectful.

Motherfucker.

He sure as fuck didn't sign up with any thought of _more_ in his head, but Slade's been nothing but good to him during the heat. Sometimes a bastard, but Jason finds he doesn't mind that so much. It's all just teasing, and when it mattered, he always got what he needed, no hesitation. When he really wanted it, Slade let him have his space without any complaint.

Would it be so bad to give dating a try? Or, a 'partnership'? Sure, they don't know each other, but that's supposed to be the point of dating, isn't it? Supposedly, normal people don't usually know each other all that well before they date, assuming his limited second-hand knowledge is right, anyway. Not like he has any experience himself. He thinks, though, that most people just start it based off there being 'something' there. Attraction, or mutual interests, or…

Well, approval from the pack alpha. Permission. Not that anyone's ever going to get that; not from Bruce, anyway.

Jason's pretty sure that he'd be fucking pissed if Bruce tried to give him an 'approved' alpha to date, anyway. He can't imagine them being anything but some goody-two-shoes, wait-till-marriage-and-mating little hero, and he's definitely not fucking interested in that. No one is containing him. Not ever.

Fuck, maybe the biggest point in favor of the whole idea is that Slade isn't intimidated at all by who his pack is. He came after him anyway, touched him, has abso-fucking-lutely signed himself up for some serious harassment as soon as his family finds out. He has to know that asking for more is signing up for so much worse; sleeping with him is one thing, sharing a heat is worse, but actually being in a relationship? Stalking, harassment, challenges… Jason can't imagine any of the pack taking this quietly. Slade has to know all of that.

But he asked anyway. And Jason can admit to himself that Slade's attractive. Not what he expected to be attracted to, but the confidence, and strength, and competency is definitely attractive. And the looks, too. Shit. Older man was not supposed to be his type.

Well… Maybe that's enough, to start. He jumped in a bed with Slade with less information than that, right? Arguably, sharing a heat is a lot more of a leap of faith than going on a date.

… Fuck it.

Jason throws the sheets aside and rolls out of the bed, wincing a little at the stretch of muscle as he stands. It's fine. He's fine; it'll go away with a bit of movement. Had much worse. Warm water, bit of stretching, and time.

He heads for the bathroom, hesitating for just a moment at the door before he opens it. Slade's under the water, but looks over at him when he closes the door. He stills for a second, under the look of that blue eye, but takes in a breath and makes himself move across the tile, to just in front of the ledge that separates the black tile of the open shower from the white of the floor in the rest of the room. His toes dig into the fabric of the bath mat.

Slade straightens, tossing back his hair with a flick of his head as he turns, faces him.

Jason breathes in. Flexes his fingers instead of clenching them to fists. "You don't even know me."

Slade tilts his head, looks at him. "I know enough."

"Enough to want me to—” He cuts off, looks away and then back. "To be your partner?"

There's a moment's pause, then Slade steps forward, right up on the other side of that ledge. "Yes."

"Bullshit."

The corner of Slade's mouth twitches upwards. Slowly, he sinks down on his knees and reaches forward, wet fingers finding his hips and clasping over them, not pulling, just holding.

"You're attractive," Slade rumbles, leaning forward and — Jason inhales, but doesn't pull away — brushing lips over his abdomen. "Dangerous. Intelligent." Slade looks up at him, mouth drawing into a smirk.

Jason swallows. His breath comes in shallow, and he holds himself carefully still. "And that's all? There's no other reason?"

Slade snorts, softly. Then rises till he's towering over him, hands lingering at his waist, fingertips gentle against his skin. "Course there is, kid. You're being wasted on that pack of yours; I want to see what you can do with someone that respects what you are."

That _hurts_ , somewhere back behind his heart. He has to swallow again, force that all back down as he holds Slade's gaze. "But you don't… I mean…” He can't finish the words. He exhales, ducks his head and grabs Slade's arms, digging his nails in as he drags in a breath. "Just promise me."

He feels the brush of air against the top of his head before Slade presses lips to his temple. "Can't, kid. It's never a sure thing."

Okay. That's probably fair, right? Slade doesn't know him, and he doesn't know Slade, and it would be dumb to lie and say it's all going to be fine when they can't possibly know that. That's not fair to ask of him. Figuring that out is the point, isn't it?

"Alright." Jason leans his head forwards a little more, pressing it to Slade's shoulder. His skin is warm and damp, and the muscle reassuringly solid beneath his touch. "Then just… Promise me that you're not doing this just to end it. Please."

“Can’t see why I would.” Slade inhales deep against his hair. “But sure. I promise I’m doing this with the best intentions. You've got my word.”

It's a little drawled, a little sarcastic, but it's enough to make Jason's shoulders ease down. He probably shouldn't trust it. (If Slade's just fucking with him, it's not like his word is going to mean anything.) For some reason, though, he does anyway.

“So, you ready for a shower and some breakfast now?”

Jason snorts softly, pressing his face harder to Slade’s skin for a moment. The contact helps still, the same way it did when he was in heat. Goddamn bullshit instincts. “Shower yes. Breakfast only if I make it, though. That shit you cook always tastes bland.”

Slade chuckles rather than take offense. “You think you can do better?”

“I _know_ I can do better.” Jason forces himself to pull his head back. “I was actually raised by someone who knows how to cook something other than MREs.”

Slade arches an eyebrow. "I don't think you've got any idea how I was raised, kid."

He— Okay, maybe not technically. "I know it didn't involve anyone teaching you how to cook," he bluffs, covering up his ignorance as best he can. He knows Slade joined the army basically as young as possible, but he doesn't remember much of anything being in the file about his home life before that. Shit.

Whatever; Slade probably doesn't know anything about how he grew up before Bruce, either.

Slade's mouth quirks. "True enough. Alright, kid, you can cook." He leans in closer, voice deepening. "Now get in here."

Doesn't sound like such a bad idea, joining his 'partner' in the shower. He's probably too sore to do anything — even the thought makes muscle twinge, a bit — but maybe it'll be nice to just have Slade's hands on him, all warm and wet against him…

Jason shivers. He clears his throat and tries to will away the blush he can feel on his cheeks. "Yeah, okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Skalidra's tumblr!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Firefright's tumblr!](http://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Here's something we think you've all been waiting for from this story. Hope you enjoy and are staying safe out there <3

There's something very intensely primal about a hunt.

Bruce might go on and on about it being all about the investigation, and patience, and self-discipline, but privately Jason really thinks that's all bullshit. Just more self-denial from the world's leading master of it.

The thing is, it feels _good_ to hunt. It is deeply satisfying to go out into the world with a target in mind and stalk them down. Find where they're hiding and flush them out, or go in and bring them down, no one ever seeing you coming until it's too late. It's like the jaws of a sprung trap, snapping into place. He's not psychotic enough to be ripping throats out or anything, but there's a satisfaction to tracking down prey that he can't deny. Doesn't want to.

The League taught him the value of that, more than anything. Bruce was always trying to shut it down, tell him that he needed to restrain the instinct and only let rationality dictate his actions when it came to their work. Instinct had its place, in fights or whatever, but 'hunting' was something wild, and certainly not what their goal was when they… hunted down whatever criminal of the week they were after. (Twelve year old him ate it up without fucking question, tried to be Bruce's definition of good, and all that shit, but post-death things all seemed a whole lot clearer. Side benefits of temporary sociopathy.) The League, on the other hand, believe that instinct is the foundation of a good warrior, and alright, maybe a whole society of murderous spies and assassins aren't the best people to be taking life lessons from, but Jason's more inclined to agree with them on this point.

It's not the Pit's influence, no matter what Bruce says, or Tim implies. He still felt that deep, intrinsic satisfaction of a hunt gone right long before the Pit, or dying, or any of that whole mess happened. Tracking prey, moving with his pack at his side, then working together to take down whoever they'd set their sights on? It was as close to settled as he ever really felt, apart from being curled up in a secluded corner of the manor with a good book. It felt _right_ even then _,_ so it's not like the Pit made him crazy and now he just can't help the instinct of it, or however Bruce wants to phrase it. He's always been this way.

Maybe that just makes him a little crazy, but they're all a little fucking crazy. If appreciating the satisfaction of a hunt is his brand of it, then whatever; there's a whole lot worse that he could be doing.

The rest of them feel some of it too, he's sure of it. Bruce might be in total self-denial of the fact he even has instincts — when they're not convenient to him — but not everyone else is so cut off. Dick's always been more in tune with the wilder part of their natures, and Tim is laser-focused when he's got something to go after. Damian sure as hell gets it, given what he was raised in, even if he won't admit to anything that suggests he's not in complete control of himself. Hell, Barbara is _constantly_ tracking one criminal or another; she's too deep in, if anything.

None of them will hunt with him, though. Or talk about it. Bruce is the pack alpha, so what he says is supposed to be the law, and if he says they shouldn't give in to instinct and enjoy hunting? Well, it's not going to stop anybody from feeling it, but it'll stop them talking about it. Make all of it an internalized sin, or some stupid bullshit. It's the same bullshit that's gotten him labeled as unpredictable and dangerous. Bruce's opinion of him is what keeps him isolated, keeps the rest of the pack from working with him most of the time, keeps them from trusting him, when they do.

Even when they have worked with him, they're always watching. Making sure he's not breaking any rules, or about to turn on them, or whatever they've gotten in their heads. It's not the same. None of it is.

He can hunt with pack and feel the connection, but constantly have to be on his guard because so are they, or he can hunt alone, letting himself sink into the instinct of it all but giving up any feeling of being with pack. He doesn't know which he prefers, honestly; they're both miserable in their own way.

Going after the last bits of the traffickers, though, with Slade at his side and watching his back, that feels like a _hunt_.

There's one day of rest, easing out sore muscles with a workout down in the gym and relaxing, putting together the information he has into something workable.

Slade's the one to send out the feelers later that day, take the last pieces of Jason's info and find where the loose threads are lingering so they can start tugging. A few hours and he has some names; a couple more after that and he's got the information on an empty-warehouse base at the opposite end of the town where they've all apparently retreated to, and taken the last of their cargo with them.

A short nap, then equally short drive in the early morning hours, and they're both suited up and closing in on the bastards' hideout. The security's a joke, obviously set up in a rush, and it's laughably easy to bypass it and get inside the warehouse. It only takes a couple minutes. 

For the first time since he died, Jason doesn't feel like he's being held back at all, working next to someone else. Slade is there at his side the whole way, and there's not even a question of what to do, or a hint of disapproval at his methods. They move, and Jason lets himself fall further into the instinct then he ever does when he's not alone, balancing it out with the cold, calculating edge trained into him that lets him keep his head when his gaze passes over the trucks and shipping crates with locked doors. The fucking bastards. He left most of them alive when he was cleaning up their main bases; he's not feeling as generous now. Clearly they haven't learned a damn thing.

Slade presses close up against his back, both of them high in the rafters and armed to the fucking teeth, and breathes, "Just say the word, kid."

He bares his teeth, lets the anger focus into lethality, and drops right down in the middle of all of them.

They might be scattered, already scared — maybe with a bit of a false sense of security, considering his enforced break from tracking them — but they put up a decent fight. Jason knows he can handle himself, and it's refreshing to be sure that Slade can, too. Refreshing, also, to know that he doesn't have to rein himself back; Slade doesn't care if he puts bullets between the eyes — or legs — of these pieces of shit. He doesn't have to worry about keeping everything non-lethal, or not _too_ brutal, and he doesn't have to worry about his partner watching him instead of their enemies and getting themselves in trouble. So when he does catch glimpses of Slade, moving around him with ease and watching his back, all he has to do is admire.

He's never really had the chance to watch Slade work before. Oh, he's heard the stories, seen the files and bits of video clips, here and there, but they've never seriously crossed paths. The most he's seen of Slade's fighting style was his challenge on the mats, and that sure as hell wasn't a good representation of what he's really capable of. (Not that 'fighting' shittily trained henchmen is either, but that's not the point.)

He's smooth, lethal, efficient… _Fast_.

Now, Jason's sort of glad he never did tangle with Slade in the past, and he's sort of thrilled at the idea of getting to spar with him for slightly lower stakes than life or death. (Christ, how is Dick still standing after going up against him so many times? That's either a lot of luck, or Slade's never taken what chances he must have had to kill him. That should _not_ excite him, damnit.)

Slade flings one of the last jackasses into the side of a shipping crate hard enough the metal dents, and Jason swallows. Alright, so he's a little into that. Shit. Probably going to need to have a serious sit down with the fact that watching Slade fling six feet tall walls of muscle around like that turns him on. And the fact that he's really, _really_ into how dangerous Slade looks in that suit, stalking towards the very last trafficker and not even flinching at the shots ricocheting off of the barrier the Ikon suit makes. Very Superman. Except that Jason's never seen Clark look even half as predatory, and he's definitely never reacted to Clark like this. Not even when he was fifteen and every fucking thing under the sun made him at least a little horny.

Slade takes a good slice out of the guy's hand along with the gun. One good swing would end it, slice his throat or whatever other way Slade feels like, but Slade circles the bastard almost leisurely instead, kicking his knee out from under him. It must break, cause the guy shrieks loud enough it almost hurts Jason's ears even through the helmet, and he collapses to the cement flooring. Slade sheathes his sword and sinks to a crouch, lowering both hands to take the guy's head between them and hold it still, a couple inches off the ground. Then Slade's head lifts, gaze obvious even through the mask as he looks right at where Jason's standing. There's a pause, a sharp moment where Jason doesn't breathe, doesn't move.

Then he swallows, and nods.

With a single sharp _wrench_ , Slade snaps his prey's neck.

That should not be hot, it should not be hot, it fucking _should not_ —

Fuck.

Slade slides back to his feet with way too much grace for someone of his sheer size, moving lightly across the room to where he's standing. Jason straightens up, turning his head a bit as Slade steps up to his side, leaning down close to his shoulder and inhaling deeply enough that he can hear it. He's got neutralizers on, nobody should be able to smell fucking anything off him unless he absolutely reeks, but Slade's not just anybody.

He thinks it probably makes it worse that Slade doesn't actually touch him. Just says, low and intimate, "Cops have been signaled; they're on their way. Response time of about ten minutes, for the first car. You want to open the crates, or leave it to them?"

He's got no fucking business making a question like that sound like _that_.

Jason closes his eyes behind the helmet, taking in a breath to steady himself against the heat and closeness. Thank god he can't smell Slade through the filter on his helmet, honestly. "Leave it," he decides. "Better if they can't ID us. We'll stick around to make sure they find them, then I can keep an eye on whoever's recovered through the reports; make sure they all get treated fairly."

"Whatever you want," Slade agrees. Promises?

Whichever it is, Slade follows him when he pulls back to a good vantage point in the rafters, just under some kind of maintenance and/or emergency hatch that should let them slip out without the cops being any the wiser. Once they show up. Slade crouches just to his side, as easily balanced as any of Jason’s pack. Silent and almost completely still, minus the faintest rise and fall of his chest. And the turn of his head, when Jason gets caught looking.

It’s just about ten minutes. Wherever Slade got the information, it’s accurate.

Jason waits long enough for the pair of cops to get the crates open, and hear the call in to send ambulances and get them some backup. Then he slips out onto the roof, Slade just behind him. Easy enough to slide down and get off the building, then head out to the woods — maybe he’s a city kid, but he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to straight up forests being right next to the edge of the city — and climb into the rented jeep to get out the same way they came in; circuitously, skirting the edge of the town to make sure that where they went in is suitably separated from the target.

Slade drives, and once the warehouse is out of sight — everything’s out of sight, actually — Jason reaches up and pulls his helmet off, taking in a deep breath of the startlingly fresh air. Slade’s scent, too. The wind whips most of it away, but he gets a tiny bit. Enough to get his attention and prompt him to turn in his seat and look over. The Ikon suit is skintight, hugging with perfect definition the curve of Slade’s closer bicep, sweeping black and orange down to where his fingers are wrapped around the wheel.

Slade glances his direction — only noticeable because his head has to turn far enough to clear the blind spot — then slows the jeep, bringing it to a gradual stop. The engine shuts off, and just like that there’s silence. Silence, and Slade, pulling his mask off and shaking his head to let his hair fall free. There's a sharpness in his eye, when Slade looks at him. Wildness that Bruce would be massively disapproving of in the curve of a grin. Jason swallows, and before he can do anything stupid — like lean over the jut of the parking brake and drag Slade in to meet him halfway — makes himself look away and climb out of the car. He hears the opposite door shut just a moment after he closes his.

The engine of the jeep ticks slightly behind the hood, cooling down, as he stands there and stares out at the trees and the very faint dusting of snow over the ground. He feels as wild as that grin, breathing in shallow, measured inhalations to keep himself restrained. The thrill of the fight is still in his blood, mixing with the pleasure of a finished hunt, and the _vicious_ satisfaction of killing the kinds of bastards that have the gall to hurt children.

It’s all the feelings he’s not supposed to have. All the feelings that he could never share with any of his pack, since they like to pretend they don’t have them too.

There’s the faint crunch of footsteps, and he barely has time to turn his head before Slade is in front of him. Tall, powerful, and… his. He feels a swell of something in the base of his stomach, something itching and urging. Slade’s mouth curves back into the grin.

Being cracked back against the car hurts a little, but Slade’s mouth is on his and there are gloved fingers in his hair, and he doesn’t give a shit about the faint ache of his shoulderblades. He’s more interested in pressing forward into Slade’s weight, meeting teeth and tongue with his own.

Jason snarls into the kiss, and the grip in his hair yanks his head back. He’s barely had time to process the sting and the sparking pleasure of that harsh pull before Slade’s teeth are on his throat and everything else becomes unimportant. He’s not going to really bite, and Jason knows that somewhere in the back of his mind, but it doesn’t lessen how the points of his canines feel, digging in just under his jaw in the vulnerable spot between where armor ends and his helmet would begin. A part of him melts, arching against the jeep and letting his head fall even further back, surrendering to the threat of the bite with anticipation, instead of fear.

Slade rumbles against his throat, fingers releasing his hair to clasp around the back of his neck instead, hold him still as the teeth dig in slightly harder, and then all at once release. Slade’s mouth is still there, though, pressing lips and tongue against the newly sore spot.

Another small rumble, and then Slade murmurs, “You look as good in a fight as you do under me, kid. Gorgeous.”

As compliments go it’s one Jason’s never even considered having aimed at him, but the strangeness doesn’t occur to him until he’s already relaxed and leaned into Slade’s touch. He almost opens his mouth and teases Slade for it, until he realizes he was doing almost the exact same thing. Watching Slade fight, watching him fling people around, watching him _kill_ , was really, _really_ attractive. He probably wouldn’t have phrased it like Slade did, but it’s not like he wasn’t thinking the same thing, more or less. Probably no room to tease, there.

“Mmm…” Slade noses at his throat. “Maybe I should take you home, though. Compare it again.”

Jason snorts. “What happened to it being a ‘safe house’?”

Slade draws back, mouth already curved in a smirk and slightly open for whatever retort he’s got. But he tenses all at once, and Jason only has time to suck in a breath before something flickers past the edge of his vision and Slade grabs him by the shoulders and bodily _throws_ him away from the jeep.

He hits the ground rolling, and _sound_ cuts through the air. A high pitched, screaming whine that makes him shout in pain and clasp his hands over his ears. Underneath it, he hears Slade roar.

Rolling up onto his knees is automatic, keeping his hands over his ears to block out at least a little bit of the sound as he brings his gaze up to Slade. Down on one knee, teeth bared, hand clutching at his head. Enhanced hearing. _Fuck_. If it’s painful for him, there’s a not unlikely chance it straight up deafened Slade.

Jason’s gaze skips over the snow till it finds a small, black device standing out against the snow, but he’s only just spotted it when there’s a sudden rush of movement dropping down from above. Black and blue in familiar shapes, one in sleek lines and the other with cape flared wide to slow the fall. _Bastards_.

He snarls — sound completely lost under the electronic whine — and grabs one of the guns from the small of his back, taking aim past Slade’s bulk and the closing-in forms of Bruce and Dick behind him. He pulls the trigger, hits the little black thing, and the sound cuts out in exactly enough time for him to hear the _crack_ of Dick driving his full weight into the back of Slade’s thigh, boot sparking blue and breaking right through the orange flare of the suit's shield.

Slade roars, twists and lashes out wildly, but Dick's already danced far enough backwards to be out of range, and the injured — broken; definitely fucking broken — leg slides right out from under him and sends him crashing to the ground.

Jason's hearing is still a little off, but his shout of, "Hey!" must be loud enough, because both Dick and Bruce's heads snap up. Slade's doesn't; he stays facing them, pushing up on his hands and bracing the working leg underneath him. “What the fuck do you assholes think you’re doing?!”

Bruce is stiff and tall. Dick looks a bit taken aback.

Jason pushes back to his feet, shaking his head to try and get rid of the last of the phantom whine lingering in his ears. He snarls, stalking forward. Slade twitches, but doesn't turn towards him; maybe he can feel the vibration of the footsteps, or smell him, or something? Whether he can or can't, Jason still circles sideways, staying out of range of his grasp until he's sure that he's actually visible in his peripherals. Better safe than sorry; Slade could do some serious damage reacting instinctively, before he could stop it. He's seen enough of Slade's reaction speeds to know that.

Dick shifts, looking like he wants to dart forward and force distance between them. "Jason... We've got him. Step back."

"I don't fucking think so." He bares his teeth, steps more blatantly between them. "Back off."

“Hood,” Bruce tries this time. “It’s all right. Whatever he’s got on you, whatever he’s done, we won’t let him hurt you.”

It’s so like Bruce to stick to codenames even when Dick has already broken that barrier. Or when everyone present clearly knows the identities of everyone else and has done for years. Jason curls his lip higher at it, before the rest of what he said catches up to him.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Seriously?” he snorts, then scoffs. “Years of practically ignoring me during my heats and now you choose to take an interest. Of fucking course. Well, sorry to tell you, old man, but nothing happened here that I didn’t want to happen, and the last thing I need is any of your ‘help’.”

Evidently surprised by his response, Bruce and Dick exchange a startled look between them. One that is unsurprisingly far more emotive on Dick’s side. It honestly looks like he'd never actually considered that might be the case. Which is both disappointing and unsurprising. Jason snorts at the response, while also using the momentary distraction provided by it to take a step back closer to Slade.

It’s about as clear a message as he can make about whose side he’s on here.

Bruce doesn’t seem to get the memo, though.

“Jason, come here.” he says, dropping the pretense of codenames finally with alpha command in his voice.

He rolls his eyes. The tone tugs on him, but he’s had a whole lot of practice resisting it by now. “No.”

“Jason—”

“ _No_.” In a blatant sign of disrespect, Jason turns his back on his pack leader to instead offer Slade a hand back up onto his feet. “Fuck you, B.”

It’s hard to tell just how much of their exchange Slade has been able to understand since the device went off. Bruce and Dick’s parts, at least, he could probably lip read even if his hearing hasn’t fully recovered yet, but not Jason’s.

No matter, he’s pretty sure Slade already knows how he feels about this situation anyway.

“You going to be okay?” he mouths at him, and gains just the tiniest nod of acknowledgement from Slade before one strong hand clamps down on his forearm, followed by another on his shoulder, and the alpha levers himself back up onto his feet while using Jason as a support.

Well, onto one foot, anyway. The fact that Slade isn’t putting weight onto the broken leg feels painfully obvious even as he straightens up and turns his own glare on Bruce.

“Still too much of a coward to face me by yourself, I see,” is what he says.

All at once, the already existing tension in the air ratchets higher. Bruce’s snarl is deep enough to almost make Jason flinch, while Slade’s answering one definitely does. Down one leg and still mostly deaf, he doesn’t much fancy Slade’s chances when it comes to winning this fight if it erupts again, though the alpha doesn’t seem to much care about that even as Bruce takes a dangerous step forwards towards them.

Thankfully, they’re spared from having to find out by Dick doing what he apparently does best: playing peacemaker between Bruce’s uptight stubbornness and everyone else.

“Whoa, whoa! Okay,” he has a hand on Bruce’s shoulder before Jason can even blink, “clearly, we may have got the wrong end of the stick here. So why don’t we all just take a moment to breathe first before taking this any further?”

“Tell that to my leg, Grayson,” Slade growls.

Even with the domino mask on his face, Jason knows what it looks like Dick rolls his eyes. “I know your limits. I didn’t do anything to you that you can’t recover from in a few hours.”

“Brat.” Despite the harshness of the word, Slade doesn’t actually seem that angry. Not at Dick, anyway. It’s a slightly uncomfortable reminder for Jason that Slade and his predecessor have a long, tangled history of their own between them.

“I’m just saying,” Dick starts again, yanking Jason’s attention away from that niggling discomfort, “that clearly there’s some missing context here. I think we should all take a step back and talk about this before anything happens that we all regret. Maybe, somewhere neutral?"

"This is neutral," Jason points out, a little petulantly.

Really, he should be helping. There's no good outcome if Slade and Bruce go at it here, especially since Dick will jump in, and he sure as hell will too. It's just that he always hates it when Dick tries to play peacekeeper, as if he isn't just as biased and opinionated as any of them. Like he's the _reasonable_ one, and not just parroting all of Bruce's ideas in prettier terms.

"Alright, neutral and _comfortable_." Dick doesn't quite glare at him — he's trying too hard to be diplomatic for that — but it's close. "Nobody wants a fight if we don't have to have one."

Jason can't help snorting. Loudly.

That is blatantly, obviously untrue. Every inch of Bruce's posture says he _absolutely_ wants a fight. Slade's probably would too, if he wasn't keeping weight off the leg. It's a damn good thing Jason's so used to all the bullshit alpha posturing, or he'd probably be as worried and unnerved by the threat in the air as any normal omega, backed into the corner of a booth by the sniping of their partner and whatever asshole feels like trying to wave their dick around. (He's stopped more than a few of those fights by decking both parties; not a bad idea here, either, as far as he's concerned. He could even escort himself out afterwards.)

Which is why he's not expecting Slade to suddenly agree.

"Alright." Slade shifts a bit, hand tightening where it's still braced on his shoulder. "I know a couple places in town."

Jason's probably not just imagining the smug edge to his tone, even if he doesn't really understand why it's there. He honestly has no idea if Bruce's little flash of teeth in response is just in response to the tone, either, or if he's understanding whatever Jason's missing. Given that Dick's expression pinches a bit, too, it's probably the latter.

Bruce's growl of, "Fine," certainly sounds annoyed.

(This feels like some nuance of alpha posturing, so, maybe best if he just rolls his eyes and goes along with it. As long as everyone ends up in the right place, he supposes the alpha idiots can bitch at each other all they want. As long as they're not putting him in the middle of it.)

"I'll drive," Slade is quick to say, around the flicker of a smirk.

"You will _not_." Jason flashes his teeth when Slade looks down at him, then very pointedly looks at the broken leg, then the ear he can actually see at this angle. (Christ, he did not see the little trickle of blood before.) He trusts Slade not to crash, but that doesn't mean he wants a mostly deaf, injured Slade at the wheel if it doesn't have to happen.

He does some rapid-fire calculation as Slade narrows his eye. Three alphas, two at each other's throats, five seats technically with the two rows, someone has to drive…

" _I'll_ drive." He looks to his pack. "B, you're up front with me. Dick, sit behind him. Slade's behind me."

He braces for the complaints, and the bitching, but there's only frowns and wary glances. Looks like he solved the issues. Not that he _wants_ to spend the drive with Bruce in the passenger seat, but he'll take that over them getting into a fight in the backseat. Obviously, Slade was never going to sit with either of them at his back, either, unless he had the ability to yank the car into a tree or something. And Bruce would probably rather ride on top of the car than have Slade at his back, and— Fucking, goddamn alphas and their inflated egos. Like children, sometimes.

Somehow, they all shuffle into their designated places without too much more fussing. Jason helps Slade to the car before climbing into the driver’s seat, and gets a quietly murmured instruction on where to go along the way. Once inside the vehicle, he’s quickly grateful that all of them have scent blockers on. This much alpha testosterone within a confined space would almost certainly make him want to flip them all into a ditch.

As it is, he just has to put up with Bruce’s folded arms and perpetual glower in the passenger seat, alongside the slightly nervous and impatient tap of Dick’s fingers and feet from the back. Slade on the other hand looks perfectly relaxed, or is at least doing a pretty good job of pretending to be. Jason even catches the occasional glimpse of his amused smirk in the rearview mirror, which almost certainly means Bruce does, too, and… 

Yeah, okay. Now maybe he’s starting to get an uncomfortable inkling about where this is going.

Great. Awesome. This is going to be fun.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! We're at the end with this one. Hope you enjoy it as much as you have the previous chapters, and thanks so much for all the support you've given this story ♥

The place Slade directs him to drive to is a quiet little diner on the edge of town, clean and well taken care of, in sharp comparison to the ones Jason is used to in Gotham. There’s only a couple customers in at this time, and those soon clear out when Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood and Deathstroke walk into the place (or in Slade’s case, hobbles). Any gripe management might have about their entrance is soon smoothed over, though, as Slade nods at the matronly woman behind the counter. “Going to need this place for an hour, Margaret. Lock the door, would you.”

Bruce producing a small stack of bills doesn’t hurt, either.

Dick raises an eyebrow once they’ve all managed to sit down together, Jason and Slade on one side, and him and Bruce on the other. “Know her, do you?”

“I know everyone here, kid. It’s my town.”

Oh. Now Jason thinks he gets why Bruce is being so bitchy about all this. Nothing is 'neutral,' here. All of this is Slade's 'territory,' in at least a theoretical sense, if not a more concrete one. It's the same way that most of Gotham is 'Bruce's,' in theory. He still thinks it's dumb, but at least now he understands the reasoning.

It's fairly quickly proven as closer to fact than theory when 'Margaret' comes over with an interesting lack of fear for the vigilantes sitting in her diner to ask, "Your usual, Mr. Wilson?"

Slade grunts something like affirmation, which is apparently enough for her, because she turns to him next.

"And you, dear? Can I get you anything?"

It's a little surreal, but despite the knot of tension in his stomach, Jason _is_ hungry. "Yeah, uh, coffee, and uh…" There's not a menu in sight, and a surreptitious glance towards the one he can see on another table doesn't tell him anything useful. Basic breakfast foods, though, right? So—

"An omelette; ham, cheese, and tomatoes. Two slices of toast. Bacon on the side."

Jason stares at Slade, a little unnerved by the pretty much perfect recall of what he made yesterday morning, finally out of the heat and able to make his own choice about what to cook and eat. It's not _exactly_ his favorite thing, breakfast-food-wise, but it's pretty damn close. Slade wasn't even _in_ the kitchen while he cooked; what the hell?

Margaret pauses a moment, till Jason puts the shock aside and gives a little confirming nod, then turns to the other side of the table. "And for you two?"

"Just coffee," Dick says, with a slightly strained but still winning smile. Then, after a glance at Bruce — tense, gaze fixed on Slade, an inch from an open snarl — adds, "For him, too."

"You got it." She offers Jason, specifically, another small smile before heading off to the back kitchen.

Okay, that’s fucking weird. People usually smile at Dick, not at him. He didn’t really get her scent, though; maybe she pinned him as an omega somehow, and she’s an alpha?

Slade’s arm lifts and hooks across the back of the booth, behind his shoulders. The warmth and weight of it distracts him from the questions, tempts him to lean back against it right up till he sees the flicker of teeth from Bruce, across the table. It only takes him a second to decide to do it anyway; Bruce is a little fucking late to be telling him what he can or can’t do, and he doesn't give a shit if the proof of what he actively consented to makes 'his' alpha uncomfortable. Fuck him.

Dick breathes out, audibly. "Alright, so, shall we get started, then? Jason, clearly we've misunderstood what happened. Why don't you tell us your side?"

His 'side,' like this is some stupid argument and not them being complete jackasses. Assholes.

"It's not any of your business," he snaps, through his own flash of teeth. "It was my choice."

"Jason…” Dick's expression tightens, his gaze shifting to Bruce. "We're your pack. If you needed help, you could have come to us. We would have helped."

"Really." Jason narrows his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest. "Well you never have before so how the fuck would I know that?"

"Jas—”

The table falls to sharp silence as Margaret returns to the table, tray balanced on her arm with the pot of coffee, cups for the four of them, and what turns out to be cream when she sets it down. She pours for all four of them — will probably help them believe that it's not poisoned, that it's all from the same container — and leaves the pot behind. She finally scurries a little bit then, apparently feeling the weight of all the eyes on her back until she vanishes from view once more. Jason reaches for the cream before anyone else can.

Dick pulls his cup closer after a glance towards Slade, cradling the mug between both hands. "Okay. So you… invited him to share your heat?"

"I offered," Slade corrects. "A place to stay, and company if he wanted it."

Bruce's mouth finally curves into an open snarl. His voice is a dark growl. "Jason is _our_ pack. You had no right."

Slade’s mouth curls into a sharp smirk, the arm around Jason’s shoulders pulling back so he can brace both of them on the table and lean forward. “It’s not my responsibility to shepherd your lost little lambs back to Gotham, _Wayne_. If he was a real part of your pack, he never would have been half the country away, a day out from a heat; maybe you should have been there.”

That stings, but only in all the ways that Jason’s felt a hundred times before. He sets the spoon he was using to stir the cream in down, and presses his lips together. He doesn’t have anything to say, anyway. Slade’s not wrong.

Something that Bruce apparently either doesn’t get or doesn’t want to admit, because his head turns just enough to make it clear he’s addressing Jason when he demands, “Does he speak for you?”

Jason glances to Slade, chewing over a response for a moment before he settles on, “When he says something I disagree with, I’ll correct it.”

It's probably lucky that Bruce doesn't crack a molar, with how tight his jaw clenches down. Slade, on the other hand, looks almost unbearably smug, leaning back against his seat as if that simple statement guarantees his victory. Jason's not sure how he feels about that. He's not some… some prize to be won, or something.

"Jason," Dick says, calling his attention back with the same precisely targeted distraction, "you know that a heat can affect your judgment for a day or two ahead of time. Are you sure this was all your choice? He didn't manipulate you?"

Luckily his, "Yes," is an easy answer. Yeah, the heat muddled his thinking, he's sure of it, but he had every opportunity to make his own choice. He may have been led by instinct he didn't fully understand, but if there's one fucking thing he's had plenty of practice at, it's denying instinct.

Dick breathes out again, and Jason _gets_ that it's a calming thing but it's getting damn irritating. "And you were safe, right?"

Jason's entire brain comes to a screeching, grinding halt. "I—" He gropes for words, for an answer to— to—

"I can't carry disease," Slade cuts in, "and I'm sterile."

Oh. Oh, okay. Alright, that's—

Slade snorts. "I may not stick to your little moral rules, Grayson, but if there's one thing I'm definitely not, it's reckless. You know that."

“I do,” Dick’s eyes narrow, “It still concerns me that you apparently didn’t bother to talk to Jason about it beforehand, though.”

"It didn't matter.”

“No, because you just made an assumption on his behalf without consulting him about it first. When were you going to tell Jason this, Slade? When it eventually occurred to him that you didn’t use protection and he went into a panic over it? You can’t just go making decisions for people like that without talking to them about it.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Jason intervenes before they can go into the topic any further. “I’m still here remember? Maybe try taking some of your own advice, _Dick_.”

Slade looks smug, but before he can say anything, Jason rounds on him too. “He does have a good point, though. You should have told me that beforehand. Just because you didn’t think it a concern didn’t mean I wouldn’t.”

Slade tilts his head at him. “Do you consider it a concern now?”

“No, but I—”

“This is exactly why _we’re_ concerned, Jason.” Bruce interrupts, and it’s exactly enough to tear his attention back from Slade to the true subject of his ire. “He’s not a good man. If he didn’t tell you about that, who knows what else he’s hiding.”

“Real rich coming from you, Bruce.” Jason says, after giving Slade a pointed look that says they’ll talk more about it later. “You’ve never trusted me to make my own choices since I came back. Not once. At least Slade is honest about who he is, unlike you. I’m not a child anymore. I’m not crazy or naive, either. I knew exactly what I was doing when I said yes to him, and I’m sick of my life being held back because you won’t trust me.”

“That is not true.”

“Isn’t it?” he laughs bitterly. “You won’t let me back in close with the family, but you don’t trust me to go it alone either. I’ve suffered my heats alone for _years_ because none of you will step up to help, and anyone outside our pack was too scared of you to even try. Slade is the first person who’s ever wanted me enough not to give a damn about what you’d do to him if and when you ever found out about it.”

"Jason," Dick says, voice as gentle as if he's talking to some traumatized victim holed up in a corner, "all you ever had to do was ask. Any of us would have agreed if you'd just—"

"Come begging?" Jason finishes for him, the bitterness twisting his mouth into a sneer. "Why should I be the one that has to come crawling to one of you for help? You all knew I was alone. You made _sure_ of it."

“We didn’t… you never asked. Never said.” Dick, god damn him, actually looks hurt as well as concerned. “We thought that was what _you_ wanted.”

Jason stares at him, nonplussed and disbelieving, which is when Slade snorts loudly and shakes his head.

“Christ, you bats really are all a mess, aren’t you?”

Jason recovers just enough as Bruce starts to snarl to say, “What I wanted? You really think that was what I wanted? To be isolated and alone?”

"Of course they did," Slade breaks in, something derisive in his tone. "It's what they'd want. The big fearsome _Bat_ would never admit to needing anything, or being vulnerable, so he'd never want anyone around. And Grayson gets impressively hostile when pushed into prolonged contact against his will, and generally has a functioning ability to ask for what he wants, unlike Wayne. Neither of them can imagine being in your position."

"That's not fair," Dick says immediately, voice dipping sharply into a snarl. "Don't act like you knew any better, Slade."

Slade's lip curls into a smirk. "I didn't have to know any of your family drama to see an attractive omega, alone at the cusp of his heat, and _ask_ if he wanted company."

“And the fact he just so happened to be my son had nothing to do with your decision, of course.” Bruce says, hostility radiating in every word as he grips his coffee mug with enough force to crack the handle.

Slade shrugs. “I’ll admit, at first that was a bonus. For both of us, I think. The idea of pissing you off never gets old, Wayne. But the truth of the matter now is, I just plain like Jason. He’s smart, capable, _dangerous_. Full of that violent potential almost all of your children have, except unlike Grayson here, he’s not afraid to cut loose.”

“If you think you’re going to turn him into another assassin like you—”

A laugh, loud enough to startle Jason, shakes Slade’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Jason still has his principles, don’t worry about that, and I respect them. The same as I do his willingness to stand up for what he believes in, especially against _you_.”

This time, Dick actually has to reach out, putting a hand on Bruce’s forearm to stop him from rocketing to his feet and, presumably, across the table. His eyes flick to Jason, then Slade, and back again. “What are you saying?”

Needing to speak for himself again, Jason bares his teeth, “He’s saying that I’ve decided to give him the chance to let this be more than a one-time heat sharing, and the two of you are just going to have to deal with that. Or y’know, condemn me once again for doing anything you consider even the teensiest bit out of line, the way you’re so good at doing. Not like the two of you have never had any interest in villains before, after all. I’m sure Talia for one would just love to hear about this conversation later.”

Dick, interestingly, actually seems to blush, while Bruce goes stiffer than a board. “Jason…” he tries, sounding strangled.

Jason meets his gaze steadily, grateful for the support of Slade’s arm around him as he gears up to say the rest of it. “No, Bruce. I know what I’m saying. I know what I’m doing. Everything about this has been consensual from start to finish, and I don’t care that Slade is someone that will never have your approval. He’s been good to me. And if that ever changes, trust me, you’ll never even get a shot at him. I can take care of myself, whether you believe it or not.” His heart aches, and he licks his suddenly dry lips as he finishes, “You’re… You’re my family, Bruce. Pack. But you never listen to me. Not since I came back. No matter what I do, it’s never been good enough for you, even when I tried doing things your way again. So if you want to continue being that to me now, it’s your turn to make an effort. Starting with respecting my choices, and my ability to make them of my own accord.”

Bruce's expression isn't angry, exactly. Not the kind of strangled fury that he's been aiming at Slade. It's just frustrated and closed off, and Jason hates, suddenly, that Bruce is still wearing his neutralizer patches. That both of them are. He can't smell a damn thing off either of them; just Slade, thick and protective, without being overwhelming. It's steadying.

"It's not about trusting _you_ , Jason."

"Yeah, Bruce, it is." Jason takes a breath, letting that scent sink into his chest and give him just a little more courage. "Look, I know you don't like Slade. I know you don't trust him. I'm not asking you to. But this is _my_ choice, and I need you to respect that. You don't get to control every bit of my life just so you can be more comfortable with it; if it's a mistake, it's my mistake to make, and I need you to back off and let me find that out on my own. Can—?"

The swinging door across the room opens in a rush, admitting Margaret back in with plates balanced on each arm as Jason cuts himself off, holding his tongue till she's come over and laid all of it out in front of Slade and him.

"Anything else I can get for any of y'all?" she asks, as Jason stares a little bit at the pile of sausages, bacon, and eggs that is apparently Slade's 'usual.' That's… a lot.

"I think we're good," Dick answers for all of them. "Thank you."

"Alright, just give a call if any of you change your minds." It feels like she looks specifically at him when she says it, but the best that Jason really manages in response is a smile that probably looks more than a bit forced. She doesn't seem to mind.

It does give him a few moments to steel himself, preparing to actually ask what he has to. She disappears back behind the door, and Jason holds Bruce's gaze and asks what's really the only important question he has tonight. "Can you do that for me, Bruce?"

For a tense, excruciating handful of seconds, Jason doesn't think it's going to happen. Bruce might as well be carved in stone for all the reaction he shows, mouth one hard, flat line. What is he really going to do, if Bruce says no? If he insists? Is Jason actually going to have to cut ties? Is he really going to have to decide if exploring his own desires is worth cutting himself off from pack, and family? (And worse, if Bruce says no, is that even a pack he wants to be in anymore?)

Then Bruce takes in a barely perceptible breath, and his head tilts just far enough to be clear he's looking at Jason, not Slade. "Until the second he does something. Fine."

Okay. Alright, that's… That's good enough. For right now. Probably he's going to have to hammer out exactly what qualifies as 'something,' but at this exact moment Jason's okay with leaving that potential minefield alone.

He nods, and then turns his attention to the _other_ over-protective alpha at the table. "Dick?"

Dick's pretty obvious about how he looks at Slade, studying him. Slade doesn't even twitch at the attention. "Alright," Dick agrees, about a thousand times less grudging than Bruce. "I don't trust him either, Jason, but if you want to try this, I won't get in the way. Just so you know, though, I'll be there if you need me. Just give me a call."

The relief is a sharp sweep up through his chest, coming out in a heavy exhale as some of the hard tension in his shoulders finally eases.

"Really, Grayson?" Slade drawls, mocking amusement obvious enough in his tone. "After all our history?"

" _Because_ of all our history," Dick immediately corrects. "I know you, Slade. You're a self-centered asshole with little to no moral compass, a complete lack of ability to be emotionally open in any meaningful way, and a self-imposed set of rules that no one but you actually understands. You have a toxic relationship with your ex-wife, you've driven away all of your kids in various self-sabotaging, destructive ways, and I don't think it's a matter of 'if' you hurt Jason, I think it's a matter of when. I'm respecting _his_ choice, not agreeing that you're a good one. Just so we're clear."

And there the relief goes. Well, that was fast.

"Yeah," Jason mutters to himself, "this is going to be fun."

"Oh, you want to talk about _relationships_ , Gray—”

" _I'm_ going to eat," he interrupts, loudly. He turns his head to Slade, first, to say, "I think _you_ should eat, too," and then back to Bruce and Dick, "and I think that if you two are going to stay, you should order something. Then maybe we could all just pretend to be rational, friendly adults for like, half an hour, and no furniture gets broken? Yeah?"

There's an intense staring contest between Dick and Slade for a couple seconds, before Dick spits, "Fine."

Slade snorts quietly, but doesn't argue and doesn't finish whatever nasty retort he was halfway through. Jason will take that as a victory.

It becomes blatantly clear after a handful more seconds that no one else has any intention of being the first to make a move, though. Jason bites back a sigh, squeezes his eyes shut, and then calls, "Margaret!" loud enough he's pretty sure that she can't miss it.

Sure enough, he hears the door open after a moment, and opens his eyes again as she comes up to the table. She takes a glance around the table, settles on him. "Yes, dear?"

He picks up his fork just so he can point with it, flicking it over Bruce and Dick both. "They're going to order," he challenges. "Right?"

She turns to them.

Bruce is the first to give, a little surprisingly. And okay, maybe 'toast' isn't exactly the kind of meal that Jason was thinking when he demanded it, but whatever. At least it's something. Dick's choice is at least a little past monosyllabic, but it's not nearly as friendly as he was earlier. Not even a forced smile. Obviously Slade struck some kind of nerve, even though he didn't actually finish what he was going to say.

And then Slade _ruins_ it with a, "You can go ahead and leave the poison off this time, Margaret. I'll handle it."

Jason bites his tongue not to groan, and very nearly bends the fork with how hard he grips it so he doesn't just try and stab it into Slade's arm. Ikon suit. It won't work, and he's not going to _stab Slade_ in front of Dick and Bruce and prove all their points, even if he is being a _monumental asshole_. He takes a deep breath, strangles that urge back down his throat, and forces the most insincere, terrible smile he thinks he's ever made.

"Thank you," he says to Margaret, and keeps his gaze on her for the entire time that she's crossing the room so he doesn't have to look at the tense, murderous expressions of Dick and Bruce, or what is undoubtedly a self-satisfied smirk on Slade's face.

He's probably not being sincere. He _probably_ hasn't actually used Margaret to poison anyone. (But this is apparently Slade's town and he knows everyone here and they know he's Deathstroke, so really, Jason can't be totally sure about that. He's also not entirely sure he wants to know if matronly, diner-owner Margaret also sometimes poisons people.)

"I have a very high tolerance to most poisons," Bruce chooses to growl, because he has no subtlety and also is one hundred percent incapable of not taking bait when someone dangles it in his face.

At least Dick seems to also feel the same resignation to the inevitable that Jason does when those words come out.

"I'm _sure_ you do," Slade says, because of course he does. "I'm immune to nearly every drug on the planet."

"Enhanced healing isn't the same as being immune to something."

Jason shoves half of a slice of toast in his mouth, and crunches it between his teeth loudly enough he almost doesn't hear the next snippy comeback.

"I'd say it’s nearly identical, if nothing ever manages enough of an impact to affect me either way. Jealous that you only get half the results with all that work, Wayne?"

Yeah, this is going to be loads of fun.

* * *

By the time they're back, Jason doesn't feel like doing much of anything except collapsing, face-first, onto the couch in Slade's living room. Maybe it's only been a few hours since they even left the house, but he feels as drained as if it's the end of a night of patrol.

At least the food was good.

At least Bruce and Slade didn't start an all out fight in the middle of a small town diner.

Jesus, is that where his bar is set right now? 'No outright brawls. Good food. Five out of five stars.'

The couch dips under his thigh, and he grunts in mild protest as a hand presses down next to his head and Slade starts to climb over him. "This is not going to fit both of us," he points out.

Slade hums, and doesn't stop. About forty seconds later and with a pair of big hands manually flipping him over, he's half on top of Slade and facing his chest, one heavy arm looped over his back and holding him on the couch. In his defense, he was right. They don't really fit. But with their legs tangled together, and Slade holding him up where he'd inevitably be tilting backwards and falling off otherwise, it works. It's kinda nice; his head is buried against Slade's neck, and even through the Ikon suit, he's warm.

Also Slade's other hand is cupping the back of his skull, and that's oddly reassuring, too. It's kind of nice to just be held, even if he's still in his body armor, and Slade's got the Ikon suit on, and the holstered gun at his thigh is digging into his leg where he's lying on it.

"You're an asshole," he says anyway, grumbling it into the crook of Slade's jaw and neck.

Slade makes an idle, agreeing-sounding noise, and turns his head enough to press a kiss to Jason's temple.

He sighs, closing his eyes as Slade's fingers stroke down the back of his neck, and then back up through his hair. "How is this going to work?" comes out of his mouth, even though he doesn't really want it to. Too late to take it back, though.

Jason feels the vibration of the words as much as hears them. An unconcerned, "What part?"

So many. There are so many pieces that don't quite fit, like trying to fit two different puzzles together into a whole, with the images not matching, and… That's a dumb metaphor. He's tired, and that's dumb, and he's just going to drop it right there and no one needs to know he thought it at all.

Everything spins itself around in his head. All the questions like: what do they really possibly have in common, apart from being good at killing? What's an actual future look like with someone else when he doesn't even have a plan for his own life? What did Slade mean, saying he was sterile? Is that going to be a problem? Does Jason even want kids? What if Slade never gets along with any of the rest of his pack?

But his mouth opens and all that he actually says, for some reason, is, "I'm not living in Kentucky."

Slade snorts. "I wasn't planning on asking you to move in with me within two days of getting to know each other, city brat."

Oh. Okay. Fair point. Not that it helps, much.

"Then what? We go on… dates?"

There's a grunt. "I don't date."

Jason rolls his eyes behind his lids. "Big bad Deathstroke doesn't do dates. Noted."

Slade mock-growls, the fingers in his hair curling to grasp tight for a moment and shake him just a little. Then Slade tugs him further up, lying flat on his back and dragging him up on top, knees on either side of his hips. "Stop overthinking it, kid. Lives don't turn on their heads just because you start seeing someone. You've got cases. I've got work. That's not going to change."

"So what _does_ change?" Jason asks, after a moment. He pushes up, bracing an elbow on Slade's chest to get high enough to look down and meet his gaze. "Just sex?"

Slade's eyebrow arches over his remaining eye. "That what all this felt like to you, kid? 'Just sex'?"

He frowns. "I didn't mean that."

The hand at the back of his head tugs him down to pull his frown right into Slade's smirk. It's a couple moments before he's allowed to pull back, to a low rumble of, "There's more ways to do things than fast and all in. Don't worry, kid; I'll be around."

"Even in Gotham?"

Slade's mouth tugs into a grin, teeth flashing. "I'd like to see anyone try to keep me out."

Jason lets the tug of fingers pull him back down, back into warmth and heat, and the solidity of Slade's arm sliding lower on his back, cupping a hip.

He'd like to see that, too.


End file.
